


This Ain't Stockholm, Baby

by petroltogo



Series: A RomCom Dressed Like A Tragedy [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also fluff, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Humor, But Also Serious Issues Treated Crackish, Castiel And Dean Have A Bond In Everything I Write Okay, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack with Plot, Dean Winchester's Sense Of Self-Preservation, Don't copy to another site, Epic Friendship, Health Issues, Inappropriate Humor, Kidnapping, Lots of Law-Breaking, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Morally Ambiguous Character, No Love Triangle, Protective Everyone, Sarcasm, Smart Dean Winchester, This Fic In A Nutshell: Dean Gets Kidnapped And Treats It Like A Roadtrip, This Is Genuinely Not As Dark As It May Seem, Twisting tropes, Unreliable Narrator, Winchester Coping Mechanisms (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23155336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petroltogo/pseuds/petroltogo
Summary: There’s three things Dean is absolutely sure of. One: Getting shot in a back-alley because some asshole doesn’t know how to pick a lock is a shitty way to die. Two: If his impromptu kidnappers — or the mother of all headaches — don’t kill him first, Sammy definitely will. And three: Whatever pretentious douchebag calls itself Lucifer is someone he definitely doesn’t want to meet. Not that he seems to have much of a choice.Dean knew he shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today.Mondays never hurt anyone, his ass.Or: Nineteen year old college drop-out Dean Winchester has a lot of problems. None of which involve theArchangels— rumored heads of the most infamous gang in the city — until they make themselves Dean’s problem.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lucifer/Dean Winchester, Michael/Dean Winchester, Ruby & Dean Winchester
Series: A RomCom Dressed Like A Tragedy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664491
Comments: 95
Kudos: 255





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How Not To React When Two Armed Assholes With An Attitude Problem Fail To Steal Your Car_  
>  a.k.a. Dean has a bad day

> _Fuck Mondays. Seriously._
> 
> — Dean Winchester

The day starts out fairly decent, as far as Mondays go. Looking back, that should have probably been Dean’s first clue.

It isn’t. Dean blames his staunch belief that not _every single day_ in his life can be meant to suck for that error in judgement. Because surely there is some justice in the world. Some cosmic balance to even out the shit hand he’s been dealt.

Fuck, he sounds like a gullible sucker, doesn’t he? Dean really, really should’ve known better. Optimism is for people with a stable living situation and a future, who don’t live on ramen and expired painkillers.

On the bright side, it could have been worse.

[On the other side, Dean is of the firm opinion that this line doesn’t help shit when your life falls apart around you. He’s less than impressed to be proven right.]

Still. The point stands. It _could_ have been worse. At the very least, Dean isn’t doing anything important when some bored, fucked-up personification of Fate turns around and lowers the quality of the shitty, overly dramatic soap opera than calls itself his life even further. After that incident two months ago that had him fainting like _a maiden fair in terrible distress_ — or so Charlie insists — Dean didn’t think that was possible.

Apparently someone out there took that as a challenge. Of course they did.

He is hanging out at this small, comfy coffee shop near Sammy’s school, blocking a whole table — much to the prissy waiter’s annoyance — mostly just killing time until school runs out. More precisely, the waiting is killing _him_.

So is the chai latte Dean has accidentally ordered. He is convinced the barista is low-key trying to poison him — because there’s no way any drink is _supposed_ to taste this terrible, people pay for this shit — and has spent the past two hours observing the guy out of the corner of his eye. Which might be an alternative explanation for why 'Dave' is so damn twitchy. But he’s not Charlie — Charlie, who makes terrible jokes and greets Dean with the daily updates on the Stony vs. Stucky war, Charlie who would have never handed Dean a fucking chai latte [except, possibly, to film him try it for the first time] and Dean has a hard time forgiving the guy for that. It’s not Dave’s fault that Charlie doesn’t work on Mondays, but that’s not really the point. Of course, Charlie might actually refuse to serve him anything but chai lattes if she learns that Dean has been terrorizing the new guy again.

Deciding to give the kid a break, Dean settles for glaring at the still mostly untouched cup in front of him. No way is he going to drink this crap. Bad enough that he had to pay for it, he’s suffered enough. And clearly spent way too much time ordering Sammy’s drinks because there is no other excuse for answering a perfectly disinterested "What can I get you?" with c _hai latte_ of all things.

Clearly, Dean is losing his mind, sense of self and possibly his soul. That or the murderous headache that has been building behind his temples since he made the inexcusable mistake and got out of bed this morning is messing with his mind. Either is possible at this point.

Did he even take painkillers before he left the house? Dean can’t remember. Which probably isn’t a good sign.

The air-conditioning doesn’t help. It is turned on full-blast, so even though Dean has been sweating all day in the unnatural pre-summer heat, now he has got goosebumps on his skin and determinedly refuses to shiver. His skin feels clammy and wrong, and all Dean really wants is to punch Dave in the face — or curl up under all the blankets he can find and never resurface again.

One of the baristas is walking around between the tables, handing out free samples of double-chocolate chip muffins and vanilla donuts without sparing Dean a single glance.

 _Well, thanks a lot, assbutt_.

It’s undoubtedly the final sign of the universe telling Dean in no uncertain terms to give up the vague hope that this day will miraculously take a turn for the better and just go home, crawl back into bed and forget about the rest of the world. Dean has gotten the message, loud and clear. Sammy is just going to have to walk.

[Never mind that his bossy, little bitch of a brother would take one look at Dean and demand the keys with judgy bitchface No. 11. Because " _You’re not driving in that state, Dean, are you trying to get yourself killed?_ " Which would mean Dean would be obligated to refuse to hand the keys over and have to deal with Sammy’s pouting and complaints the whole drive home. And Dean loves his brother to pieces, but just no. He’s not in the mood for that shit.]

With a too-loud groan — if the affronted glares from the study group two tables down is anything to go by— Dean collects his books and pushes them into his worn-down backpack with a careless shove. Unlike certain someones, he doesn’t worship books. Especially not long-winded, headache-inducing bullshit thick enough to serve as a murder weapon. One Dean is tempted to wield. He likes vanilla donuts, damn it.

Striding out of ChemicalCoffee with a brief nod of acknowledgement towards Dave behind the counter — because Charlie would skin him if he didn’t, but if Dean has to exchange another word with the kid, he’s going to kill someone — Dean focuses on not stumbling when the heavy, too-warm air hits him like a brick wall the moment he steps outside. The bright afternoon sun does nothing to soothe the piercing pain behind his head. Neither does the noise of too many cars driving too fast or slow, howling engines and frustrated honking everywhere. Yeah. This day is so done.

Dean takes a few slow, deep breaths. Reminds himself that he really doesn’t want to throw up in front of all these strangers. Except maybe the asshole who almost bowls him over. He’ll make an exception just for that fucker. Why does he live in the smack middle of a city again instead of a lovely cabin high up in the mountains, far away from civilization? It sure sounds tempting right now.

A couple of minutes pass like this, with Dean leaning against the nearest wall and desperately gathering his bearings, before the intense wave of dizziness-slash-pain-slash-motion-sickness finally passes. For the moment at least.

Dean really, really hates migraines.

Thankfully, ever since the disastrous zoo trip on Sammy’s seventh birthday, Dean is prepared for days like this. It takes a bit of fumbling and grabbing blindly because his backpack probably should have been cleaned out two years ago, but finally his hand closes around the small bottle of pills. They’re stronger than your usual painkillers, definitely the prescription kind — which Dean has somewhere in his bag as well, thank you very much — and Sammy probably isn’t too far off with his insistence that Dean shouldn’t drive after swallowing two of them dry.

But, well.

Listening has never really been Dean’s strong suit. Besides it’s like a four minute drive. He could find the way home drunk off his ass just fine, these pills aren’t going to be a problem. [And yes, Dean knows that from experience, just don’t tell his father. Sammy will bitch and whine, but John might actually murder Dean.]

So instead of calling a cab, Dean slowly but steadily walks down the street. Taking a turn to the left, the tense muscles in his neck start to relax the further away from the main street he goes. It’s a short walk, maybe five minutes, but the small backstreets are almost abandoned at this time — too early for the school kids, to late for the moms at the grocery store — and it’s too damn hot to hang out on plain asphalt if you have a better option. Like the park a few corners over.

Don’t get Dean wrong, this isn’t a bad part of town. Sure, it’s a little quieter and the houses are rundown, paint peeling off on doorways and graffitis adorning every free space of mural. But it’s not the type of neighborhood where you’re wary to leave the house after eight o’clock. Seriously. Families live here. With little kids. There’s a small, pink bike leaning against the wall on the other side of the street. Yeah, a couple of homeless guys hang around sometimes, but that’s it. Hardly a reason to upgrade to full-on Armed and Dangerous™ status, is it?

Except Dean maybe sort of comes to regret that relaxed attitude a little bit when he rounds the corner, only to see two guys trying to break into a car. His _car_.

And maybe those pills are as strong as advertised, because instead of the usual, easily ignited rage at the thought of anyone touching _his_ _car_ — a gift from his parents when he turned sixteen, one of the last gifts his mom ever gave him — Dean feels weirdly detached from the sight. And well. Since he apparently isn’t going to throw himself at those guys any second, he does the only other thing that comes to mind in the face of this unexpected development: he freezes right where he stands.

Somewhere in a shitty bar in the really fucked up part of this town, his dad is probably crying into his whiskey at Dean’s stunning display of common sense and self-preservation.

In Dean’s defense: He knew he shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today. And at least he hasn’t screamed. That would have been truly pathetic. As it is, Dean is honestly considering just leaning against the wall until the world stops feeling like it’s wobbling under his feet. Then maybe he can call the police or just sit down until someone else comes by to do it for him. Always a good plan. And sure, losing his car would suck, but working up the proper indignation that thought deserves requires energy Dean simply doesn’t have right now.

So yeah. He’s doing a good job of coming to terms with the situation. Or at least that’s what Dean likes to think. Why these assholes chose his car is a bit of a mystery, a classic Impala 76 isn’t the most inconspicuous ride, but whatever. There’s probably a good reason for that, and Dean’s just too out of it to figure it out.

On second thought — and after watching those wannabe-robbers for a couple more minutes — maybe there isn’t. Maybe those guys have no idea what they’re doing. Dean can’t think of any good reason why they would pathetically fail at stealing a car like this. It’s so sad, it’s almost funny.

Fuck, he really, really hopes he doesn’t giggle. Not that Dean giggles, it’s just those meds make him do strange shit sometimes. He’d deny it, but Sammy the bitch unfortunately has evidence. Blackmail, more likely.

Dean blinks. Forces himself to focus. There are two hot guys trying to break into his car — clearly a situation that demands his attention — and seriously why does he always meet attractive guys under weird circumstances? Hot girls are one thing, Dean is good with those. But flirting with hot guys is harder, especially when you don’t know whether they’re gonna punch you in the face for it or not.

That’s not to say that Dean has never met hot guys. It’s just that most of the time the circumstances of those encounters have been pretty weird. Even by Charlie’s standards. Which is really all the warning a guy needs.

Like that one time a guy sort of maybe bought Dean a hot chocolate — he was thirteen, okay, let it go — in the most roundabout way known in human history. Or that time his prom date ditched him and Dean spent the latter part of the night on a swing on a playground with a surprisingly cool guy and a bottle of vodka. [By the way, vodka sucks. The buzz just isn’t worth it.] Or that time he was locked in an elevator with a guy. Who didn’t tell Dean his name, even though they were trapped in there for five hours. But he stole Dean’s lighter, so Dean figures that makes them friendly acquaintances.

Right. There was supposed to be a point to this internal monologuing Dean has got going for himself here. The point being that these guys are terrible thieves — though Dean very much appreciates that they haven’t just shattered one of his baby’s windows — and there is only so much time he can spend watching them try and fail to crack the door open.

So, Dean does the natural thing and clears his throat. Loudly.

Both guys jump, which almost makes Dean scoff. They are out in the open after all, not standing in a safe room. If they weren’t as jittery as they appear right now, Dean might not have even suspected anything off about them. Well, and if it wasn’t his car they are trying to break into. That’s a pretty big clue too.

Dean takes a moment to evaluate the possible future owners of his car. The one on the right is wearing dark, torn jeans, a white muscle shirt and a very impressive scowl. His arms and shoulders are covered in tattoos, some of them even reaching his chest all the way up to his neck, which helps upping the imposing do-not-fuck-with-me air the guy has going for himself. He’s taller than the other guy, maybe even has an inch or two on Dean and has the kind of muscled built that would make Dean wary of taking him on even if he couldn’t see the dark look in his eyes. Friendly guy, that one.

The one on the left at least doesn’t look at him like he’s imagining how Dean will look bleeding out on the ground. For that alone, Dean already likes him better. He’s a good deal shorter too, and a bit thinner. A tattoo peaks out from under the oversized band t-shirt he’s wearing, but he has a good deal less than his companion. He also has light brown hair long enough to almost brush his shoulders and is eying Dean up shamelessly with the kind of amused twinkle that would make a lesser — or quite possibly saner — man run for his life.

Naturally Dean returns the favor.

They both look pretty surprised, considering the fact that they’re standing in broad daylight in the middle of the afternoon. Although the street is empty apart from the three of them, so there is that. Still. Dean feels a little let down by the entire experience. Hollywood has prepared him for dark, rainy nights, thunder rumbling in the background, and hollow footsteps following young girls home. Not— whatever this is.

Maybe that’s why Dean is confronting them like this, instead of doing whatever a sensible citizen would do. His dad may have taught Dean how to throw a punch, but right now even Sammy’s tiny friend Meg could probably lay Dean on his ass in two seconds flat. Or perhaps there’s just not enough room for rational thought when you struggle to remember how to walk in a straight line.

It helps that Dean has a hard time taking these guys seriously. They haven’t managed to break into his car yet, which probably isn’t that difficult if you know what you’re doing. Added to that the fact that they look like Sammy and his friends when Dean used to catch them sneaking T-rated video games in, and well.

"Need some help with that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a WIP that's been gathering dust on my computer for the better part of two years. I can't and won't promise regular updates, but every once in a while this story catches my attention again and I really want to share it with anyone who's interested, whether or not I'll ever finish it.
> 
> If you enjoy what you've read so far, please let me know what you think in a comment!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How To Defuse A Potentially Violent Confrontation With An Impromptu Kidnapping_  
>  In which Dean's day doesn't get better, but these painkillers sure know what they're doing.

> _The thing about self-preservation is that it requires you to want to preserve yourself. And that’s just another way of saying you refuse to change._
> 
> — Dean Winchester

" _Need some help with that?_ " Dean asks and is unreasonably proud when his voice comes out clear and confident. Then he takes a moment to reevaluate what he just said and resists the urge to face palm. True, Dean has never caught a thief before, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t supposed to offer help.

Band-Tee-Guy snorts.

"Yeah. _Pretty_ _please_ , prep-school boy, teach me how to pick a car lock."

[See? Dean _knew_ he shouldn’t have let Sammy buy him 'appropriate’ clothing. On the bright side, the guy has a sense of humor. Also, considering that Dean feels closer to death than life and must look like he’s about to keel over any second now, he really appreciates the compliment. It’s nice to know that the combined superpowers of his cheekbones, jawline and freckles remain an unstoppablee force.]

"What are you doing?" Muscle-Shirt growls, face stony. He clearly doesn’t share Dean’s appreciation for his friend’s light-hearted comment. Or his friend’s appreciation for Dean.

Clearly, the guy has terrible taste.

Dean magnanimously decides to ignore him. He focuses on Band-Tee-Guy instead. If nothing else the two of them speak the same language. Sammy and his 'sarcasm isn’t communicating, it’s a way to avoid communicating' lectures can suck it. [And if Dean can almost feel Sammy’s incredulous glare of exasperation burn into the back of his head, well, all the better.]

"Well, since you asked so nicely, big boy." Dean smirks at Band-Tee-Guy and — with exaggerated slowness and one hundred percent real clumsiness — pulls the car keys out of his pocket. Let’s them dangle in the air for a moment.

The dawning realization on their features is exactly as entertaining as Dean has hoped it would be.

Too bad it doesn’t magically resolve the dull ache behind his temples. As it is, the pills won’t stave it off forever and Dean just wants to get this whole day over with. So he doesn’t bask in their surprise like he undoubtedly would’ve done under any other circumstances. Instead, without giving them the chance to respond, Dean says a very calm "Catch!", and tosses Band-Tee-Guy the keys.

[If Sammy was here, he would probably faint. Or rush Dean to the nearest mental hospital for an emergency evaluation. But Sammy is in school for at least another twenty minutes and the only one likely to faint around here is probably Dean. So.]

Band-Tee-Guy catches the keys on reflex, confusion written all over his face in bold, red letters.

Dean likes that look. Band-Tee-Guy should wear it more often. Maybe in neon paints though, the red doesn’t work well with his light skin.

"For the record, next time you can just ask me," Dean adds, all light and friendly, just to fuck with them a little more. Serves them right. The least they could’ve done is properly steal his car. Not do whatever half-hearted job this is. "Spares all of us a lot of trouble, I’m sure."

With those words, Dean turns on his heels. He intends to walk back towards the main street, then take the left turn away from ChemicalCoffee. There’s a bus stop not too far down the road that should work just fine. Besides if the walk takes as long as Dean suspects it will, he might even run into Sammy there. Who will pissed as fuck when he finds out that Dean is high as a kite, running around unsupervised and gave away his car to two criminals of a heart that could be gold for all he knows.

[Honestly, it’s hard to tell what part of this situation will piss off Sammy the most. Probably the unsupervised thing though. Sammy’s a mother-hen like that. Dean has no idea where he gets it from. It sure as hell isn’t their dad.]

And _fine_ , maybe Dean’s acting a little crazy. But the truth is, Dean has no interest in fighting those two guys over his car, no matter how many fond memories are tied to it. And isn’t public transport much better for the environment and global warming and all that shit? That’s what Sammy always goes on about, even though Dean tries his hardest not to listen to those rants. But if these guys — who, by the way, look like they know how to handle themselves in a fight and are possibly carrying more than just their fists as backup — want his car, then by all means. Dean isn’t going to stop them. Or watch them ruin the lock beyond repair.

Sometimes life really is as simple as that.

"Wait, what?"

Other times you find yourself surrounded by bullheaded idiots intent on making everything more complicated than it needs to be.

Dean suppresses a frustrated sigh. The situation is fast losing its entertainment value and he really wants to go home. Be at home, actually. Bury himself under his covers and not get up ever again. Meanwhile Band-Tee-Guy is staring at the keys in his hand like he’s never seen anything like them before. Not that Dean can blame him. They’re fascinating invention, what with being small and silvery and just like any other car key Dean has ever seen.

"I said 'Next time you can just ask for the keys'," Dean repeats. Carefully enunciates the words to make sure he isn’t slurring. He so isn’t in the mood for an in-depth discussion about car theft and the finer legalities of possession.

"This is your car?"

"Yes."

"You’re handing over your car?"

"Yes."

 _Obviously. You’re a quick one, aren’t you_.

Except Band-Tee-Guy apparently isn’t. He’s still standing there, staring at Dean with uncomfortably sharp eyes. His friend, on the other hand, proves himself much more adaptable. Muscle-Shirt simply shrugs, mutters something about "crazy rich people with too much money" — and oh, Dean wants to laugh so badly at that, but the humor turns to ash on his tongue — and takes the keys from his unresponsive companion to unlock Dean’s car.

And that’s it. A happy ending for a couple of wannabe-thieves, another day Dean walks home without broken bones or other unpleasant additions. Win-win all-around.

Well, almost.

Before Dean has the chance to ditch Idiot 1 and 2 with a simple "Hi, bye,", Muscle-Shirt proves himself to be just as inept as Band-Tee-Guy. He opens the backdoor and throws his backpack onto the seat with a jerky motion, rips the zipper open in the process.

Now with your usual, school-book-filled backpack that wouldn’t be a problem. Too bad there are no school books in this one. Dean’s by no means an expert, but his dad regularly takes him and Sammy to the shooting range. Als he’s watched enough cop shows to recognize a gun when he sees one. Not to mention the cash that Muscle-Shirt hastily stuffs back into the backpack, swearing all the while.

How disappointing to think that Dean’s handed his car over to these losers. They clearly can’t be trusted with a goldfish, never mind a car. Dean is almost impressed by that level of sheer incompetence.

He’s gonna blame his addled state of mind for once more opening his stupid mouth without thinking things through.

"Whoa, is there anything left in that bank you robbed?" Dean knows he is going to regret that question. Hell, he can _feel_ the bitch face imaginary Sammy is aiming at him right now.

But it’s too late for common sense to get a part in this play, that one’s clearly missed his entrance.

Muscle-Shirt stiffens — which, subtle, pal, real subtle — grabs the gun and aims it straight at Dean’s head. Which catches Dean off-guard enough that he freezes in place — for the record, staring down the barrel of a gun so isn’t cool — when really, he should have seen this coming.

It’s just that kind of Monday.

Not that self-recrimination will help Dean now. He should probably focus on the gun, it’s only polite. Muscle-Shirt’s steady grip isn’t reassuring in the least. The guy might not know how to pick a lock, but the look in his eyes tells Dean this isn’t his first rodeo. Might not even be his first _deadly_ rodeo.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Whoa, man! _What the hell_?!" Band-Tee-Guy exclaims. Forces the gun down towards the ground. "What the fuck do you think you’re doing?"

"I," Muscle-Shirt hisses venomously, "am doing my job. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing."

Band-Tee-Guy doesn’t so much as flinch. "You sure as fuck aren’t going to shoot him, I can tell you that." He says it like a fact, an order.

It surprises Dean on some level because Band-Tee-Guy is about the last person he’d have associated with a position of authority, yet he clearly expects obedience. Still. Analyzing the group dynamics can probably wait. Preferably until Dean is back home, safe and sound.

"Yeah? Well, I sure ain’t gonna go back to jail because some pretty boy doesn’t keep his mouth shut!"

And really, there’s nothing quite as soothing as hearing the words 'back to jail' out of the mouth of a guy aiming a gun at you. Dean is starting to seriously regret leaving ChemicalCoffee early. If he’d waited there for Sam, he might have passed out or something equally embarrassing, but at least getting shot wouldn’t be an available option. Especially not getting shot about something so damn stupid and pointless.

"He’s not gonna talk. Right, Winchester?" Band-Tee-Guy shoots Dean a sharp look, a wordless 'don’t do anything stupid' — though why he expects that to work on Dean is anyone’s guess —, before he turns his attention back to Muscle-Shirt. "Hell, he _gave_ us the car."

The words 'Yeah, what he said,' die on the tip of Dean’s tongue when Muscle-Shirt suddenly rips himself free of Band-Tee-Guy’s hold. His angry, black eyes look a lot more dangerous than they did two minutes ago, and maybe Dean has some shredded piece of self-preservation left after all, because he settles for an enthusiastic nod.

Muscle-Shirt scoffs. "Like I’m gonna take his word for it."

"Listen, man," Band-Tee-Guy steps in before Dean can point out that there really isn’t much to tell for him even if he wanted to. He deliberately steps between Dean and Muscle-Shirt, blocks Dean’s view of the gun. Which is considerate of him. Dean’s heart feels like maybe it dares to restart again. Dean should probably also take the chance and run for it now, but he’s a little busy praying he won’t do something as unforgivable as faint.

"You’re not killing him, end of the story. I can’t let you."

It’s all kinds of disconcerting to realize that there are two guys fighting over you — in a very fucked-up way, naturally. Luckily for Dean’s sanity, the better part of his concentration is focused on figuring out what exactly is so off about this entire situati— oh, right. Of course. The lack of dramatic doom-and-gloom music playing in the background.

Don’t you just hate it when real life doesn’t measure up to the movies? It’s always so anticlimactic.

On a related note, seriously, what shit do they put into these painkillers? Clearly Dean needs to take them more often.

"Fine." Muscle-Shirt finally relents in his epic stare-down with Band-Tee-Guy and turns his attention back on Dean. Who really doesn’t appreciate that. "You, pretty boy," he says, like there is any doubt whom me means. Dean would make a quip, but thinking clearly isn’t in the cards right now. He really needs to lie down sometime soon. Besides there’s still a gun aimed his way, and Muscle-Shirt doesn’t seem the patient kind. Not that that usually stops Dean.

"Get in the car."

Dean blinks. Really, how abandoned can a backstreet be on an average early afternoon? The universe is trying to tell him something here, no doubt about that. Something along the lines of ' _I couldn’t care less about you, have fun, don’t die and if you do that’s no loss either_ ' probably, the high and mighty, all-knowing fucker. Dean is really feeling the love here.

"Get in the car!" Muscle-Shirt snarls impatiently.

Dean blinks again. The order doesn’t sound any more appealing the second time around.

"Come again?"

"Get into the fucking car!" Muscle-Shirt might not shout, but his body is brimming with barely suppressed violence. It’s not a good look on him, Dean notes absently. Angular features and smooth skin don’t fix everything.

And well, three guesses what Dean does in response, what with a wannabe robber and aspiring murderer holding a gun to his head. And the first two don’t count.

"Yeah, I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer."

[Sammy always did insist that Dean’s mouth would get him killed someday. Looking at the alarmingly puce color Muscle-Shirt’s face is currently adopting, Dean supposes his little brother might be on to something.]

Before Dean has the chance to do anything even more suicidal, Band-Tee-Guy grabs him by the shoulders with an exasperated "For fuck’s sake!" and pushes him towards the car. For such a little guy, he’s deceptively strong. That and a light breeze could probably knock Dean over right now — but his headache has dulled to a low-pulsing discomfort, so Dean is okay with the trade-off. Clearly Band-Tee-Guy knows better than to leave Dean to make his own decisions.

Not that Dean is in any state to fight — nor convinced that he should do so. Also, Muscle-Shirt is still aiming that gun at him. That’s gonna get old real fast. The guy needs a psychologist, possibly even more than Dean does. Being so eager to kill someone can’t be healthy.

Band-Tee-Guy slides into the driver seat — _Dean_ ’s seat — and then his beloved piece of glorious junk roars to life with all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb going off in the middle of Washington D.C.

"This is a shit idea," Band-Tee-Guy mutters under his breath. Followed by the ever-so-encouraging, "We are _so_ dead."

[And Sammy accuses _Dean_ of being unfailingly pessimistic.]

Muscle-Shirt doesn’t pay Band-Tee-Guy’s dramatics any mind. His eyes are still fixed on Dean in the backseat, even though sitting half-turned-around in the front seat must be damn uncomfortable. Besides what does he think Dean is going to do? Make a Charlie’s Angel roll out of a running car? Let’s be real, if Dean had such plans, the suspicious glare sure as hell wouldn’t stop him.

Since Dean doesn’t [and wouldn’t be able to pull them off in his current state even if he did] he simply stares back. Dean sure as fuck isn’t going to back down from a bastard who has the gall to _kidnap him in broad daylight_ , with his own car no less, and call him 'pretty boy' on top of that. Over his dead body is Dean going to let him win their impromptu staring contest on top of all that.

[On the bright side, his headache isn’t bothering him anymore and if Dean were to close his eyes he could probably sleep through most of this train wreck of a Monday.]

Still. As Band-Tee-Guy takes a right turn to the interstate, Dean can’t help but think that if he makes it out of this alive Sammy will definitely kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: Thank you for reading and a very special, extra thank you for commenting! Your enthusiasm is the most rewarding part of posting my fics and I'm not sure I convey often enough just how much your interest and support means to me. You're all amazing!! [Please continue to be so :)]
> 
> Second: These are scary times, I'm not going to lie. But listen, if Dean can keep calm while he's being kidnapped by the least professional kidnappers ever, _so can you_. Stay calm, do what you can to keep yourself and others safe and healthy and be kind. Don't let social distancing stop you from reaching out to people! Skype with your friends. Use tumblr, discord etc. to stay in touch. Call your family. Just, whenever you can, don't meet up. 
> 
> Reducing your personal interactions, whether it is with your college friends, your partner who lives in another city (or just around the block) or your weekly poker night, is a _necessary evil_ right now and the more strict and consequent you are, the better you can protect yourself and everyone else. These measures only work when a very large majority of the people follows them, so please, do your part to make sure they'll stick. **This is not an attempt to shame those who have no choice but to go to work. This is a reminder to each and everyone of us to reduce personal contact wherever we can.**
> 
> Stay self and healthy, everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How To Be A Functional, Well-Adjusted Hostage: Part 1_  
>  In which Dean's kidnappers continue to remain idiots, but Dean does his best to outdo them.

> _Sometimes you have to trust in the good in people. Other times a taser comes in handy._
> 
> —Charlie

Dean has never spent much time thinking about what getting kidnapped might be like. And why would he? His dad’s salary barely covers the bills as it is, it’s not like he’d be able to pay for Dean’s safe return. Nor would anyone who knows John Winchester make the mistake of assuming he would.

[John Winchester wouldn’t bring money to a rendezvous point. He’d bring a sniper rifle and cut down anyone who dared to touch his son and if he’d been half as good a father as he’d been a protective one, Dean would be the happiest, most well-adjusted kid on his old campus, that’s for sure.]

Apparently though life doesn’t play by such simple rules like _only rich people get kidnapped_. That just figures. Dean probably should have been expecting something like this to happen. It’s been almost a year since the last life-destroying catastrophe, something was bound to happen.

[In that light, getting kidnapped by these dumbasses might have been the kindest option the universe has left for him. And isn’t that just a sad funny thought?]

Now here Dean is. Sitting in the back of his own car like a sulking child on his first and unplanned — on _both_ sides, no less — kidnapping. Dean wonders whether he should feel insulted or frightened by the fact that said kidnappers are both, willing to murder a bystander and incapable of stealing a car. [Yeah, he’s so not letting them forget that.] Seems like a dangerous combination. For that reason alone, they’re definitely the dangerous kind of stupid. Not world domination level evil, more the kind that accidentally blows up the evil lair while the good guys are still inside.

In movies the good guys miraculously make it out alive, against all odds. Unfortunately Dean doesn’t have the same assurances. [Hell, who knows if he even qualifies for the 'good guy' role. How would he know? Everyone is the hero of their own story, right?]

On an abstract level, Dean understands that Muscle-Shirt might have very well killed him, had Band-Tee-Guy not intervened. And yet, Dean isn’t afraid.

He’s worried, sure. Worried about Sammy and Dad and what they’ll think when Dean doesn’t show up for dinner tonight. Worried about what they’ll do once they figure out that there’s something wrong. Worried about what Charlie will think if he doesn’t answer her texts. Worried about those library books in his backpack that were due two days ago.

 _Hang on a second_. That last item on the list brings Dean’s increasingly derailed thought process to a screeching halt. _Returning library books_? Since when does Dean give a rat’s furry behind about returning books on time? First he orders a freaking chai latte and now this. It’s official. Sam is a terrible influence and Dean’s in desperate need of more friends his own age.

If nothing else his agonizing internal monologue underscores the point Dean initially tried to make, namely that there are some very specific things he isn’t worried about. Like the very real possibility that this little trip is going to end with his body dead in a ditch somewhere. There is no telling if Band-Tee-Guy will actually stop Muscle-Shirt if the asshole starts shooting — On an unrelated note, Dean should really ask for their names. These nicknames aren’t a long-term solution. The danger is real, whether Dean can take these guys serious or not. And yet, he can’t find it in himself to be bothered.

 _That_ should probably worry him.

[But why spend an untold amount of time torturing yourself with the questionable soundness of your mental state when you can write it off as shock and a potential overdose on pain meds? Exactly. Denial is a beautiful thing. And it’s not like Sam’s around to call Dean out on his shit, now, is he?]

It takes twenty minutes, but eventually Muscle-Shirt convinces himself that Dean won’t _actually_ climb out of the window on a damn interstate and puts the gun down. He doesn’t let it go completely, but Dean appreciates every inch of distance between the trigger and those go-lucky-let’s-shoot-somebody fingers all the same. Muscle-Shirt’s still throwing suspicious glances Dean’s way every few seconds, but at least there’s no staring contests anymore — all of which Dean totally won, by the way.

It’s a little insulting to think these guys don’t consider Dean enough of a threat to tie him up. But to be fair the only thing Dean could currently do is hold Band-Tee-Guy’s eyes closed. And knowing his luck, the resulting crash would kill them all.

In other words, Dean is being a good boy, just sitting there, twiddling his thumbs and wondering how stupid it would be to take a quick nap — those painkillers tend to take a lot out of him. Besides it’s not like any of this requires him to pay attention. It’s like being stuck at Sunday service all over again.

With nothing else to do, Dean observes his kidnappers. Both of which look even less pleased with their current situation than he is. Dean can’t decide whether that’s a good sign or not.

"Do you know what we just did?" Band-Tee-Guy finally asks. He sounds completely calm, but it’s the kind of calm people feel before they press the big, red self-destruction button. "We’re _dead_."

"Will you just shut your fucking mouth and drive?!" Muscle-Shirt yells in clear aggravation.

Dean doesn’t like the guy, but just this once he has to agree with him. There are few things more annoying than someone constantly telling you that you’re going to die. After the first two times, Dean doesn't even felt the adrenaline rush anymore. It’s getting old and they haven’t even made it to some dark and gloomy warehouse yet.

Band-Tee-Guy rolls his eyes, utterly unimpressed by Muscle-Shirt’s temper tantrum. "Your funeral, honey pie. But mark my words, Luce will flip his shit." His voice trails off and whatever he mutters under his breath Dean doesn’t catch. Alarmingly though, when Band-Tee-Guy turns to shoot Dean a quick glance, he’s grinning wildly. "Not to worry, pretty boy. The asshole next to me is expendable, but the two of us? We’re gonna get treated to an awesome show. Luce always does do his best work when he’s pissed."

And well. Dean has no idea what the guy is talking about, but that sure sounds reassuring. _Not_.

"Lucifer will understand," Muscle-Shirt disagrees, though he doesn’t sound half as confident as Band-Tee-Guy. From the deep scowl following those words, he knows it too. "And you should quit calling him by that demeaning name, Milton. If anyone is expendable, it’s you."

"Oh, _please_." Dean can hear the italics on that word, and he is pretty sure he shouldn’t like Band-Tee-Guy all the more for it. "Your jealousy is showing, cupcake. What is it? Upset that you don’t get special treatment? Maybe you should try earning it for a change, instead of messing up every single fucking job you get."

And wow, Dean didn’t know that a human voice can reach that level of saccharine. It sounds all sorts of creepy wrong. No wonder it has Muscle-Shirt bristling like he’s a cat that’s gotten a glass of water thrown at its face. Though how antagonizing the guy with the gun is a good plan, Dean doesn’t know — and wow, he’s reaching a whole new level of hypocrisy today, isn’t he?

"Careful, Milton." Muscle-Shirt sneers. "Your protection won’t last forever. Sooner or later you’ll take it too far. And there’re a lot of people waiting for that day."

"I sure hope there are," Band-Tee-Guy, who’s name is apparently Milton, agrees. Dean swears the guy is oozing smugness. He can almost feel it sink into his poor baby’s leather seats. "I do _so_ love to disappoint people’s expectations."

"God, you’re an asshole."

"Well, _I’m_ not the one who decided to kidnap some poor kid off the street for the fun of it," Milton says drily, like this isn’t even the most interesting thing that has happened to him this week. Dean envies the guy a little for his calm demeanor.

"Oh for fuck’s sake, like you’re any better!" Muscle-Shirt snaps. "Come off that high horse, Gabriel, 'cause I’m tired of listening to your high and mighty spiel. You really wanna talk sins and fuck-ups? Do you? 'Cause it’s not like Kali overdosed herself, now, did she?"

Gabriel’s — Dean assumes Milton is his last name, and it really can’t be a good sign that they’re so careless with their identities, can it? — face turns to stone. When he speaks up again, his voice is hard and unforgiving. And that commander vibe that Dean was missing earlier? Yeah, he can see it now.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about," is said with the finality of a casket slowly being lowered into the ground. _Wow. Thanks for the visual brain. Did not need that right now_. "Might want to quit while you’re ahead there, sweetheart."

The threat in those words chases goosebumps down Dean’s back. Has him clench his jaw to keep from snapping back, attack because that’s the only defense Dean’s ever known to actually work— and damn, Gabriel isn’t even talking to him.

Fuck. Dean makes a mental note not to underestimate the guy. In his experience, the people who make themselves out to be harmless are the ones you really need to keep an eye on.

Muscle-Shirt, on the other hand, seems less than impressed. Though he might just be too hot-headed to heed the warning. Dean knows a thing or two about that. [Hah. See? Dean can _totally_ do introspection. He’s the fucking king of self-reflection and Sammy’s opinion hasn’t been asked for and should not be offered, thank you very much.]

"You don’t get to give me orders remember?" Muscle-Shirt is smiling now, a raw, vicious expression that contains a lot of things but sure as hell no joy. "You had your chance and you didn’t take it. No take-backs now."

And so the bickering continues. Dean just sits there and watches the escalation. Watches the insults that grow sharper with every word. Cut deeper. Aim for the heart and soul. It feels like watching a train-wreck-waiting-to-happen from up-close — or, perhaps more appropriately, being forced to endure a car ride with a freshly divorced couple. A freshly divorced, _murderous_ couple at that.

 _Yay me_.

[He may also reconsider the Charlie’s angels’ roll out of the window. Not like either of his darling kidnappers would notice.]

Dean can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or cry. This whole situation is just too surreal. Too ridiculous. Being high on painkillers probably doesn’t help — although, well. You never know. Dean probably wouldn’t sit in the back of his car, chilling, while the two assholes in the front argue about who’s got the biggest balls if he was in his right state of mind.

That Dean can’t immediately decide whether that’s a good thing or not likely says something about his mental state, but, frankly, Dean doesn’t much care for psychoanalyzing his own mind.

Unfortunately, there isn’t much else to do. Turns out, getting kidnapped isn’t all it’s made out to be. None of those action thrillers and trashy falling-in-love-with-your-kidnapper-because-that’s-not-a-sick-and-abusive-relationship-at-all books — that Dean totally hasn’t read, okay, it’s just that Charlie really likes to rant about them — have prepared him for how _boring_ the experience actually is. Utterly, mind-numbingly boring.

There’s no dramatic car chase with ringing sirens and flashing blue lights. No drugs and chains and handcuffs — except the meds Dean voluntarily consumed before this shit started. And yeah, it’s a terrifying experience, no doubt, but at the end of the day you get locked up in one cellar or another, and what then? You might be panicking and afraid and maybe sometimes, when you’re very lucky, you might sleep, but that still leaves a lot of hours to— do what, exactly? Stare at the wall and think about how thankful you would be to sit in one of those dreadful English lessons right now? What you’d give for a damn chessboard, just to have something, _anything_ , to do?

Christ, Dean’s twenty minutes into this ride and he already wants his money back. Figuratively speaking. Although if Muscle-Shirt were to offer his — probably stolen — money, it’s not like Dean would say _no_. He’s pretty decent, not a god damn saint.

Dean lets his head roll back against the headrest. Blinks upwards at the ceiling of his beloved car. [It’s hard to be afraid when you’re in the one place you feel the most at home, the most _yourself_ , he thinks absently.]

The drive is a smooth one, unhurried. Milton clearly knows how to handle a classic car. Dean makes a quip to himself about knowing what to do with a stick in your hand, but it must have gotten lost somewhere between one brain cell and the next, and he doesn’t care enough to dive into the depths of synapses, nerves and cells to fish it back out again.

It wasn’t that funny.

He’s still bored though. So. Fucking. Bored.

Out of habit more than conscious thought, Dean slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone. It’s time for the tried and true method of battling boredom every teenager perfects somewhere between English literature with Mrs. Mason-Fitzgerald and endless buses that never show up even though the public transport lines are supposed to work just fine: playing mindless games on your smartphone. _CandyCrush_ seems as good a start as any, so that’s what Dean picks first.

His thoughts are still occupied with all the ways Sammy will undoubtedly kill him, and how disappointed Charlie is gonna be when he misses movie night this Friday [they were going to rewatch _Three Fugitives_ , fuck, the irony], and trying to predict how many texts she’ll send him. Charlie is the uncrowned Queen of Texts, and though Dean has known her since they were both twelve year old dumbasses pretending to date, there really is no way of predicting the extend of her madness even after all these years.

[He’s talking about the woman who once got the hashtag #whereisdean trending after Dean missed his first two classes, okay. By the time Dean read the first of her million texts, Charlie had convinced half the school that he had run off to Las Vegas to marry an orc role-player — gender not yet determined, will keep you updated — and the other half that he had slipped in the shower and broken his neck and was now slowly, tragically suffocating.

Granted, Dean’s response hadn’t been the most coherent one, but he still thinks that those firemen breaking down his door were a bit over the top. Especially when that led to him _actually_ slipping in the shower and almost dislocating his shoulder. Dean has never been so embarrassed _in his life_ — and he has lead a very embarrassing life.]

Case in point: The way he’s gotten himself kidnapped by the squabbling duo. Who are currently arguing about who chucked more beers at last night’s party — and with the numbers they’re talking, Dean seriously doubts that either of them were in any state to keep count.

Distracted as he is, Dean plays two full levels of the game before it suddenly occurs to him what exactly he is doing. He’s playing a game on his _phone_.

[You’d think that the first thing a kidnapper does is relieve the kidnappee of their phone. Dean certainly considers it an obvious move, now that he thinks about it. But that’s the thing isn’t it? This whole episode wasn’t planned by Milton and Muscle-Shirt and they are no more prepared for it than Dean himself is.

Sure, they’ve got a gun and Dean shouldn’t aggravate them [any more than he already has], but he’s not dealing with professionals here. They’re some dumb kids who couldn’t even steal his car properly. They haven’t knocked Dean out. Haven’t even bound his hands or searched him first. Hell, he’s still carrying his pocket knife, now that he thinks about it.]

There’s a couple of things that Dean probably should do, now that he has found a flaw in their terrible, made-up-as-they-go-along plan. Like call his dad. Or the police. Only—

Dean swallows and lifts his thumb away from where it’s been hovering above the call button. He’s going to blame this awful decision on the pain killers later, but if Dean is completely honest with himself he has never felt as clear-headed as he does in this very moment.

Still. He can’t just do _nothing_.

A quick glance towards the front confirms that the wannabe-kidnappers’ argument is still going strong. Honestly, they’re hopeless. Dean almost feels bad for exploiting their idiocy like this. Almost.

He types a quick text message to Charlie instead. Then deletes it and tries again. After four more attempts, Dean finally settles on a simple ' _two guys with gun hijacked my car how is ur day going?_ '. Maybe not the best way to break it to her, but at least it will get the situation well enough across. He hopes.

Assuring himself that yes, his phone is on mute because that would be an awkward way to be found out, Dean leans back into the seat and waits for the inevitable storm. In the front, Milton suddenly hits the steering wheel — earning a scowl from Dean because damn it, _that’s no way to treat his lady_ — apparently finally losing his cool. When Dean looks back down on his phone’s screen, there are already seven new messages waiting for him.

> hot platonic soulmate: _what??_
> 
> hot platonic soulmate: _u re joking right?_
> 
> hot platonic soulmate: _pls tell me this is a joke i’ve got a hot date damn it i dont have time to rescue ur princess ass_
> 
> hot platonic soulmate: _shit dean_
> 
> hot platonic soulmate: _it s not a joke is it_
> 
> hot platonic soulmate: _do i call the cops or what?_
> 
> hot platonic soulmate: _srsly d help me out here what do you need?_

Well. Dean can’t say he didn’t expect that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think that Charlie via texts should be a part of this fic, you're gonna enjoy where this is going lol. Hope you're all happy, safe and healthy and that this chapter brought a smile to your face! Some serious undercurrents here and there, but we're gonna stick to the crackish tone of voice until it kills us - or Dean, at least.
> 
> Just kidding. Stay safe and healthy and if you have the time, please let me know what you think in a comment!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How To Be A Functional, Well-Adjusted Hostage: Part 2_  
>  In which Dean makes poor life choices, but gives great advice. On kidnappings.
> 
> Chapter Warning: Dean's mood shifts in this chapter. Although it's overall lighthearted, he drifts down some dark roads. Nothing explicit, but if you have any concerns, message me.

> _Dean's pretty, which is bad. But he's also likable and_ that _is liable to get me killed._
> 
> _—_ Gabriel

_What do you need?_

Despite the situation — hell, despite _himself_ — Dean smiles. He can’t help it. Charlie is the only person who has asked him that question under every circumstance imaginable and who has — more importantly — always respected his answers. [Even that one time when they were sixteen and it lead to them being stuck two states over with ten bucks and no ID, dressed like Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker. Granted, Charlie had cussed him out like crazy, but it’s still one of Dean’s top three birthdays, right up there with the last one he’d celebrated before his mom died.]

You’d think Charlie of all people would know better than to trust Dean’s judgement like this, but she makes a point to do it again and again. [And has the scars to prove it. Looking back, it’s a miracle those _chemistry experiments_ didn’t kill anyone.] Dean doesn’t get it, but it never stops that stupid flood of ridiculous, all-encompassing warmth in his chest. Which Charlie damn well knows, no way is that smug smile of hers a coincidence. And yeah, maybe Charlie knows him too well for both of their sanities’ sake, but Dean likes to think it says something about their friendship that she trusts him anyway.

[Charlie trusts Dean to know what he needs. To _tell her_ what he needs, in a way Dad and even Sam just don’t. Not that they wouldn’t move Heaven and Hell for Dean if that’s what he wanted, they would. They will. But sometimes Dean _doesn’t_ want that. And that’s the part they never seem to get.]

That’s why he texted Charlie. Dean feels guilty for it, he does, but pretending he doesn’t gets easier with practice. Really. Dean would know. Besides he’ll have plenty of time to feel bad about leaving Sammy hanging like this once his head doesn’t feel like it’s filled with cotton candy and the occasional Joker’s cackle.

At least Dean hopes he will. [He’d also like Joker to shut the hell up. Dean doesn’t need the running commentary on his life choices— and he always liked Harley better.]

 _nothing_ , Dean texts back. It’s not even a lie. He feels a lot more confident about that answer than he did just two minutes ago. Sure of himself in a way Dean wouldn’t be if he was talking to anyone else. [Because anyone else wouldn’t understand what it is he’s risking. They wouldn’t understand _why_.]

> _i wanna see where this goes queenomine_

Queenomine, that should appease Charlie a little. Or so Dean hopes. It’s his nickname for Charlie when everything’s fine and he’s got the situation under control. It’s another one of those rules they made up when they were twelve, on one of those endless nights where Dean snuck out of the house and spent midnight with Charlie on the swings of the playground two streets over: If Dean uses 'sweetheart', 'baby', 'sunshine' or any other pet name, Charlie better rescue him from his most recent date, Sammy’s study-obsession or whatever else is going on right now. It’s the same for Charlie, though her everything-is-fine name for Dean is Black Knight. They probably shouldn’t have picked those names right after an intense RPG session, but what can you do?

> hot platonic soulmate: _have you lost your mind?!_

Well. Dean supposes he can’t blame Charlie for jumping to the most logical conclusion. One of them was bound to be the sane one. At the same time though, is this really such a far-fetched decision? For most people [ _normal_ people], perhaps it would be.But Charlie knows Dean. Better than anyone.

 _probably_ , Dean replies, and it’s a lie as much as it feels like the truth.

Because he hasn’t. [Granted, that assurance would hold more weight if part of Dean’s mind wasn’t currently fighting a battle of wits against the upholstery — Dean’s never noticed before, but the shotgun seat’s kind of a bitch.]

Seriously though. Dean’s fine. And he’s not crazy. Dean _chose_ not to run when he first rounded the corner and found two guys trying to steal his car. He chose not to run when he saw Muscle-Shirt’s stupid gun. He chose not to put up a fight — and yeah, Dean’s far from this best, but his John Winchester is a merciless trainer — and really, what it all comes down to is that one moment when Muscle-Shirt leveled his gun at Dean and, for the fraction of a second, Dean wanted him to pull the trigger.

Not— Not to _die_ , exactly, even though that would be the logical consequence, but just to see what happens.

This — the utter madness of this entire situation, not the kidnapping thing specifically — is something Dean wants. Something he has wanted since he was twelve and snuck out of his home in the evenings to meet up with Charlie in the park because he couldn’t stand the sound of his dad’s shouts, _his mom’s sobs_ , anymore. They’d been planning to run away together back then because that’s what twelve year olds did when they felt trapped in a world they couldn’t connect with, and though Dean has long outgrown those ridiculous notions, he’s never stopped yearning for them. The adventure. The _rush_.

Fuck. There is something terribly, terribly wrong with him, no doubt about that.

> hot platonic soulmate: _what do you want me to tell your dad?_

Dean smiles then, a soft smile his lips barely remember the shape of. Because Charlie understands. She may not want to, may inwardly curse him for this, for being so fucking stupid, but she _gets it_. Her one, simple question conveys that better than any reassurances could.

 _tell them i went on a trip to discover myself & all that_, Dean types, knows Charlie will find a way to spin things to sound more like him. It’s not like Sammy hasn’t accused him of being an irresponsible jackass before. And considering he dropped out of college and quit his job at Singer’s Garage a few days ago, there really isn’t anyone Dean’s letting down by indulging this little car ride to nowhere. [Except his family, but Dean is trying not to think about that. Not to think about how Sammy won’t understand — and Dean is thankful for that, god knows he is, but sometimes that means there is a gap between them he doesn’t know how to bridge — because it _hurts_ , worse than letting Charlie down, worse than disappointing his dad. Sammy deserves better, always did.]

Dean hesitates for a moment, because it sounds too much like those cheap chick-flicks — too much like a goodbye — before he adds, _tell them I love them_.

> hot platonic soulmate: _take care dean_

Dean stares at those words for a long time, second-guessing his decision. Wondering what he’s getting himself into here. Dean doesn’t know Milton or Muscle-Shirt, and the few things he does know aren’t reassuring. And let’s be honest, this isn’t 'getting forced into his car at gunpoint'. Dean’s got an actual choice here. The cops are only three digits away, and Dean is fairly sure they could track his phone — at least that’s what CSI keeps telling him. The point is, he isn’t unable to get help. Dean’s consciously choosing not to.

~~Fuck if Mom could see me now—~~

Is he really willing to do this? To put his life into the hands of two idiots in way over their heads? Not knowing whether this whole spiel will end with his body left in a ditch somewhere?

The answer, no matter how much Dean would like to pretend otherwise, is simple.

> _keep swinging c_

[Security is for losers anyway.]

*

With that taken care of, Dean is back to staring blankly through the window. An activity that hasn’t gotten any more interesting in the last ten minutes. His phone is back in his pocket — Dean doesn’t want to lose it just yet if he can avoid it — and so he focuses on the truly un-extraordinary scenery. Who gave streets the permission to be that bland? Someone should file a complaint.

A sharp voice in the back of Dean’s mind that sounds suspiciously like his dad reminds him that he should keep an eye on where they’re going. [Pay attention. Count the turns. Draw the map in your head. Where are you? Keep in mind, you’ll need food and water and a secure line—] It also strongly implies he should stop acting so irresponsible, but that’s never been Dean’s strong suit. At this point, he honestly doesn’t see the point — and taking a nap sounds much more appealing.

Dean is just starting to drift off, when the conversation between Dumb-But-Funny and Dumber-And-Very-Not-Funny takes an unexpected turn towards the informative. Who would have guessed?

"Oh, fuck you. What’s your problem with this guy anyway?" It’s Muscle-Shirt speaking and his words pull at Dean’s attention like an impatient mother dragging her pouting child away from the toys’ section.

" _He_ ’s not the problem," Milton mutters darkly.

Dean wonders if they realize that he’s in the car with them. Just in case, he keeps his eyes closed and facial muscles slack. [Also, the moment to squeal ' _Ooooh, sounds like there’s a story there!_ ' has clearly passed.]

"Then who is?"

To Dean’s frustration Milton doesn’t answer verbally. He must have conveyed something though because after a few moments of silence Muscle-Shirt makes a choking sound.

"Wait a sec, it that why we’re going to The Scene?" he hisses, his voice suddenly an octave lower than before. "He’s branded? Fuck, _really_?"

"Worse." Milton bites the word out like he’s cracking a whip. "He’s _inked_."

What follows is an impressive array of swear words, curtesy of Muscle-Shirt. Dean should note a couple of those combinations down. They’re ingenious and creative insults are harder to come up with than most people think.

Deciding to give up the pretense of sleep now that his curiosity demands to be fed and petted — urgh, what the fuck brain? —, Dean leans forward in his seat, straining against the seat belt he’s responsibly wearing to catch a partial look at Muscle-Shirt’s face.

"So, inked, huh?" Dean asks cheerfully. "Interesting, I didn’t know my tattoos were any of your business. Feel like sharing with the class?"

"Piss off, fucker," Muscle-Shirt growls. It would have been more threatening if he didn’t look like he’s just come face to face with a ghost. Or a clown. Sammy hates clowns and Dean can’t blame him. Those guys are creepy as hell.

"Dude, you did not just say that!" Dean chuckles so hard, it feels like he’s chocking on it."It’s your fault I’m here in the first place. You 'napped me, remember? You should feel honored, by the way. I don’t usually grace assholes like you with my awesomeness before they’ve bought me at least two beer."

"Only two? You’re a cheap date." Milton throws a smirk over his shoulder.

Dean shrugs. "Lucky for you, yeah."

"Will you both just keep your fucking mouth shut!" Muscle-Shirt shouts suddenly.

There’s that temper again. So much for seasoned criminals supposedly handling pressure well. Hell, it’s painfully obvious that both of these guys — for all their talk about murder and drugs and general badassery — are in way over their head here and have no idea how to salvage the situation. Give him a gun, a mask and a menacing one-liner and _Dean_ would be a better kidnapper than this. Actually, leave the one-liner, Dean’s great at those.

There should be a class on these situations, _101 Kidnapping Strategies_ or maybe _Holding People Against Their Will — How To Turn An Accidental Kidnapping Into Your Favor_. Something like that. It would spare all of them the embarrassment of whatever the hell this is.

"You need to calm down," Dean tells Muscle-Shirt, and for the first time today he is one hundred percent serious. "Panicking now isn’t going to help anyone and will only lead to you making unnecessary and dangerous mistakes. Take a few deep breaths and then think of how you can make the best of this situation — preferably an option that doesn’t involve me dead." Dean adds that last part as an after-thought. But hey, Sammy won’t be able to complain that Dean isn’t listening to him ever again. Granted, he got that lecture when they went over the different school rules for fire alarms, shootings and so on, and a lot of those rules involved ' _listen to the teachers and/or professionals_ ' and ' _don’t be a hero_ ', but Dean feels like he’s adhering to the spirit of these rules pretty damn well, if perhaps not the words.

Milton shoots him another of his growing arsenal of 'what drugs are you on, seriously, they amuse the hell out of me, where can I get them' looks, but Dean shrugs it off with an ease born of many years of practice.

[What can he say? Dean and Charlie have had some of their best conversations while he was high on these babes.]

"Kill you?" Muscle-Shirt scoffs in disbelief, like he wasn’t rooting for that option less than half an hour ago.

 _Sure, pal. Whatever you say_. _We believe you_.

"We could just drop him off at a random town," Milton suggests, oddly hopeful. "Pretend we never even saw him. Nobody has to know."

 _Brilliant plan there, buddy_. Not like anything would stop Dean walking straight into the closest police station and identify the both of them, if only by their countless tattoos. What the hell is it with people and common sense in this car?

 _Pot meet kettle_.

Thankfully, Dean has the presence of mind to keep those thoughts to himself.

"You know you’re still driving my car, right?" he says instead, which, if nothing else, proves his theory about common sense and its long-distance relationship with the people in this car.

"I don’t fucking think so!" Muscle-Shirt snaps at the same time. "With my luck, he’ll get run over by a car the second we drop him off."

Dean slowly turns his head, moving in exaggerated slow-motion to convey the depth of the incredulity that statement deserves. Muscle-Shirt has spent half their time in this car pointing a loaded gun at him and now he wants to wrap Dean up in bubblewrap? Who’s the one high on drugs here?

"'M not gonna risk it," Muscle-Shirt continues without so much as a twitch at Dean’s disdainful snort. "We’ll take him to The Scene, let Lucifer handle it. That way at least he’s not my responsibility anymore."

There it was again, the 'Scene' they’ve mentioned. It sounds like a half-assed club name made up by a bunch of lame kids who couldn’t be bothered with creativity if it hit them in the face with a baseball bat. In his head, Dean can _hear_ Charlie rolling her eyes at the name.

Also, Lucifer? What kind of pretentious wannabe bad boy name is that?

"You realize that dear Luce is gonna hold you responsible for this no matter what, right?" Milton asks. It’s starting to piss off Dean, the way these guys keep talking around him like he isn’t even there.

[Feels uncomfortably familiar, actually, and that’s one stone that’s definitely not getting uncovered, nope, abort mission right the fuck _now_ —]

"You realize I’m not an abandoned puppy you fished out of a carton box the day after Christmas, right?" Excuse Dean for being annoyed. He’s no one’s responsibility but his own, damn it. He’s nineteen years old and while his state of mind might be debatable, he’s more than old enough to make his own choices and take responsibility for his own actions. Because they’re _his_ to make and nobody else gets to take the credit or — admittedly more likely — the blame for them. They’re _his_ in a way few things in Dean’s life truly are.

For some reason — oh, right, they’re both _assholes_ — that makes his wannabe-kidnappers laugh. Dean suppresses the urge to slam his fist into the closest neck, because that would probably count as what Mom used to call a "disproportional reaction" but only because punching is a lot of effort and Dean wasn’t kidding about needing a nap earlier.

"Face it, sweetheart," Milton says with a smile that makes Dean seriously reconsider his more violent options, "If you could take care of yourself, you wouldn’t even be here."

Dean’s eyes narrow without permission. Not that Dean would’ve refused them, but it would’ve been nice to get asked, damn it.

"Excuse me, _boo-bear_ , if you weren’t too stupid to open a fucking car door I wouldn’t be here either!"

Instead of getting angry, Milton does the more annoying thing and _chuckles_. "Ouch, _burn_!"

Muscle-Shirt, at least, has the decency to glower. He’s touchy that way.

Still. Crabby attitude and an unhealthy fondness for shooting people aside, Dean can’t complain too much. These two might be the world’s most terrible kidnappers, but at least they provide entertainment.

An observation that is further confirmed when Muscle-Shirt turns on the radio. Which is hilarious because the volume is turned up as high as it goes and for a few seconds One Direction’s _The Story of My Life_ is blaring at a deafening volume from the speakers.

[Dean would complain to Sammy about letting Meg fuck with his car again, but he doesn’t mind pop music half as much as he likes to pretend — which does _not_ mean that he likes it, damn it — and even if he didn’t, Muscle-Shirt’s horrified spasming is as funny as it is over-the-top.]

"Insecure in your manhood? Defining yourself through society’s idealized version of the dominant, over-compensating macho and feeling threatened in your sense of self by something as irrelevant as a boyband on the radio?" Dean nods sagely and claps Muscle-Shirt on the shoulder in false commiseration. "I’ve been there. Don’t worry, a healthy dose of self-mockery and a little personal growth and you’ll get over it."

Well, that or you befriend a group of bossy, headstrong girls who will seriously fuck you up if you belittle them, their likes or preferences. Not that that has ever stopped Dean from making fun of Jo’s _Twilight_ phase. [Come on. There’s being respectful of your friend’s interests and then there’s sparkly, sexually repressed vampires. You _cannot_ ask Dean to take that seriously. That he watched all five movies multiple times is besides the point — it simply proves that Dean knows what he’s talking about.]

Milton pulls a face. "The least you could do is go for Taylor Swift, man," he complains, which earns him a comically horrified stare from Muscle-Shirt.

It really is hard not to like this guy. Milton, that is. Dean hasn’t made up his mind about Muscle-Shirt yet. Who finally settles on some classic rock station, which is cool with Dean, even if it makes the Jo-voice in the back of his head _tsk_.

"So, have you ever kidnapped somebody before me?" Dean asks when the noise in his head gets too loud. It seems as good a conversation starter as any. They’re _way_ past the usual small talk stage.

"What do you want, my criminal record?" Of course Muscle-Shirt feels obligated to react aggressively. Why Dean is surprised he really doesn’t know.

"Don’t know." Another shrug. "Do I?"

"Why do you ask?" Milton asks over Muscle-Shirt’s sharp answer that Dean generously pretends not to hear. Because suck on that Sammy, he can totally be the bigger person. He usually just doesn’t bother.

"You don’t seem very… _professional_ ," is the very generous description Dean settles on.

The comment makes the corners of Milton’s mouth twitch, and really, is there anything this guy doesn’t find amusing? "Oh really? And what, in our princess’ esteemed opinion, makes a kidnapper 'professional'?"

[What is it with people comparing him to princesses today? Not that Dean wouldn’t make an awesome princess. He’d Xena the fuck out of these idiots, that’s for sure.]

"For one thing, they should probably _plan_ their kidnappings," Dean shoots back instead because you don’t punch an asshole in the face while he’s driving. "You didn’t even knock me out or blindfold me. A guy could get offended by that lack of effort."

Not to mention they shouldn’t even be talking to him because 'seeing your hostage as a person makes it more difficult to kill them' — or so his weekly _Criminal Minds_ sessions with Charlie and Jo keep telling him. Maybe Dean should keep that tidbit to himself though. Even if they appear reluctant to kill him.

"Yeah, because having a blindfolded guy in the back of your car is the definition of inconspicuous." Milton snorts.

Which, fair point. Except for the part where, "This isn’t your car, asshole. It’s _mine_. I’m just letting you borrow her for a little while. And besides you still could’ve knocked me out."

"Not gonna argue with that," Muscle-Shirt murmurs. It looks like agreeing with Dean physically hurts him. Dean sure as hell hopes it does.

"And while we’re at it, you shouldn’t have kidnapped me at all," Dean continues, happily embracing the chance to piss Muscle-Shirt off even more. "You grabbed me because I saw some money and a gun, neither of which is technically illegal. Suspicious as hell, sure, but that’s it. You realize that, don’t you? I saw jack-shit— until you went ahead and took me hostage because nothing solves a bad situation like another crime."

"Oh, I don’t know." Milton eyes Dean through the rearview mirror. "I prefer to think of it as a _better_ crime."

Besides him, Muscle-Shirt rubs his temples. Considering that he isn’t waving his gun around, Dean decides to cautiously take him at his word of not wanting to shoot Dean. Or maybe he’s growing as a person. Who would’ve thought? Dean’s certainly never been accused of having a maturing effect on anyone.

He’s also pretty sure the guy mutters, "Should’ve definitely knocked him out," under his breath. Dean considers kicking the back of Muscle-Shirt’s seat for that, but these are _his_ car seats. Before he can resolve this unexpected dilemma, Milton takes another turn to the right and slows them down for the first time since this whole ride of madness started.

And hey, Dean’s also never claimed to be a prophet, but he knows what Milton’s going to say before he opens his mouth all the same.

"Home, sweet home, honey."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the later than usual update. RL's been kicking my butt last week - well, actually I've been pretty damn productive and gotten a lot of things done, but that happened at the expense of my writing time, so here we are. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!  
> Dean's mood changes a little in this chapter and as you may have noticed his attention span also isn't the best. Still under the influence that one - until we've gotten through this first day, he'll probably remain a little un-clear and easily distracted and moody. But I hope you've had fun and caught the bread crumbs I've been throwing your way ;) Please share your thoughts in a comment!  
> Hope you all are safe & healthy & having a wonderful week despite everything!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How To Convince Your Kidnapper To Not Let You Go: A Basic Step By Step Instruction_
> 
> In which Lucifer has more self-control than any of us expect him to, Gabriel is the voice of reason, and Dean makes a not-ideal situation a whole lot worse. Also Muscle-Shirt finally gets a name.

> _Not to victim-blame or anything, but this is 100 percent Dean’s fault_.
> 
> — Gabriel

Dean doesn’t know what to expect of the 'Scene', but whatever it is, the reality is rather disappointing. There is no abandoned warehouse in the middle of the woods — or the docks, oh, _the docks_ , that would make so much more sense — and no high-tech, military-level secret underground base, and basically it’s just a normal as you please farmhouse. A pretentious name like the 'Scene' doesn’t make it any more awesome. Actually, it just makes the reality all the more sad.

What a letdown.

There are a few cars parked in front of the house, none of which are particularly impressive. Of course, nothing is ever going to beat Dean’s baby for the sentimental value alone, but it’s also yet another disappointment. Maybe he should start a list. Shouldn’t criminals drive black Range Rovers or Lamborghinis as a rule? Not that Dean wouldn’t scoff at those too, but _still_. What’s wrong with living a little when you’re breaking the law already?

They pull up next to a beat-up VW before Dean has come up with an answer to that question that wouldn’t earn him one of Sammy’s patented bitch faces.

"Come on, princess. We don’t have all day!" Muscle-Shirt snaps impatiently.

Dean flutters his eyelashes at him just for that. "With a charming attitude like that, I don’t even mind that you’re no prince, babe."

That pulsing vein on Muscle-Shirt’s forehead really is a nice look for him. Despite his obvious aggravation though, he doesn’t go for the gun again. Instead the asshole pushes Dean just when he’s finally managed to peel himself out of the car. Of course that just means Muscle-Shirt immediately has to grab a hold of Dean’s arm to keep him from toppling over — not that Dean will thank him for it — because fuck, maybe he really isn’t in as good of a shape as he assumed he was. The world certainly seems a lot less stable, now that he’s standing on his own feet instead of sitting down.

"Woah, easy, big boy," Milton steadies him from the other side. "You alright?"

"Peachy," Dean mutters and wills his legs to act like grown-ups instead of the toddling baby colts they’re currently imitating.

The moment he feels like his legs will support him again, Dean pulls away from their hold. He staggers, but doesn’t fall flat on his ass, so he counts it as a win. The steps at the front of the house are the next challenge, but although their appearance doesn’t fill him with confidence, they are sturdy and Dean manages to get his high ass up onto the roomy front porch without embarrassing himself any more than he already has.

Milton and Muscle-Shirt remain by Dean’s sides, boxing him in. Whether that’s to catch him if he loses his balance again or to keep him from running is anybody’s guess. Dean certainly can’t be bothered playing that game. Not like there is anything within sights to run towards anyway.

Muscle-Shirt has put his gun away — Dean mentally berates himself for not keeping better track of the damn thing — and if there is any chance of getting away, now is probably it. Dean doesn’t take it though. He doesn’t even attempt to, not that there are any guarantees that he would make it, and he isn’t entirely sure _why_.

[ _Really_ , Sammy’s voice asks in the back of his mind, soft and bitter and so, so sad. _Who’re you trying to convince, Dean?_ ]

Milton pushes the wooden door open and yells at the top of his lungs, "Honey, I’m home!"

Then he turns towards Dean and gestures for him to step inside, bow and everything. Dean smirks, unable to not be amused by the guy’s antics.

The insides of the house look quite a bit more homey than the rundown appearance suggests. The walls are painted in warm beige colors, there is a carpet on the floor that matches the color of the wooden door frames perfectly and there is a coat rack placed against the wall that looks like it belongs into a lifestyle magazine, not into the middle of nowhere, holding multiple ripped, worn-down leather jackets instead of bespoke suit jackets.

God, this is surreal.

"Luce!" Milton yells loud enough to start the ringing in Dean’s head up again, motions for them to step further down into the hallway. They pass what looks like a living room straight out of _Modern Family_ , a couple of closed doors and a bathroom, before they enter what appears to be the kitchen.

The area is open, the walls painted a light yellow that softens the sleek metal look of the clearly expensive, top-of-the-market kitchen wear that are lined up on the left side of the room. On the right is a large table that is covered in papers upon papers upon papers. Two people, a guy and a girl are leaning over them and discussing something. They look up when Dean enters but only take a cursory glance at him before they notice Milton and Muscle-Shirt and apparently lose interest again.

Dean is almost insulted.

It helps that Milton’s "You guys seen Luce?" is also ignored though. Milton, clearly used to this treatment, rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at them and turns his attention back to Dean.

"Alright, you just stay here with the kids, make yourself comfortable and don’t touch anything," he says like he’s talking to a three year old, only he sounds a lot more serious than just a second ago. "I’m gonna find Luce and Ruby, break it to them." His gaze flickers to Muscle-Shirt. " _Gently_."

Dean can’t tell whether Milton means that last part or is being a sarcastic shit because the guy pirouettes on his toes before Dean can make sense of his facial expression. It’s a good thing Milton is wearing sneakers or he’d have landed ass first on the squeaky clean, tiled kitchen floor with that move.

Muscle-Shirt heads straight towards the fridge, purpose in his every motion as he pulls out a beer bottle and de-caps it with a quick twist of his hand. Dean is reluctantly impressed. He’s less impressed with the way Muscle-Shirt proceeds to chug the beer down — not that it isn’t impressive in its own right — because Dean and alcohol have a complicated relationship.

"Want one?" As though prompted, Muscle-Shirt dangles an unopened bottle in Dean’s direction. And it’s definitely Dean he’s talking to, not the other two. Because Dean is the only one still rooted to the doorway, probably looking as awkward and out-of-place as he feels.

Blinking at the guy who kidnapped him at gun-point not too long ago, Dean takes a moment longer than necessary to work through the offer. And even longer to puzzle out why it’s probably a bad idea to mix heavy pain medication with alcohol. "Sure," his stupid mouth says. His stupid legs obediently take a few steps towards Muscle-Shirt and his stupid hands accepts the bottle the guy hands him. It’s probably just as well that the bottle is unopened. Not like Dean’s in a condition to uncap it, least of all as smoothly as Muscle-Shirt has. The bastard.

Still, the glass is comfortably cool in Dean’s hand. He wonders if anyone would mind if he just presses his head against it and sleeps on the couch for a couple of hours.

"MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A BITCH!" someone roars from upstairs.

Muscle-Shirt winces. Unnamed guy and unnamed girl at the table raise their heads in unison. Dean takes it as the universe’s answer to his nap-related question. Which clearly is a firm no.

Damn it.

"Lucifer is pissed," the girl states in the most deadpan voice to ever deadpan. Dean’s impressed. He didn’t think anyone could beat Meg at her most unimpressed, but this girl makes it look easy.

"Not it," is the guy’s disinterested contribution. The papers he’s bowed over must be fascinating indeed. If Dean’s legs weren’t still going back and forth on whether they want to give out on him, he’d be sneaking a peak already.

"Fuck you both," is Muscle-Shirt’s contribution. There’s the noise of multiple sets of footsteps on the stairs. They’re getting louder. None of them sound particularly friendly.

[Can footsteps sound friendly? Dean asks his brain skeptically. His brain rolls its metaphorical eyes in exasperation at his uselessness and shuts the door in his face.]

Dean’s determined hammering against the shut door inside his mind is interrupted by someone kicking the kitchen door open. Violently.

Which seems like an unnecessarily extra™ move, considering the door was open to begin with. Something cracks when the doorhandle hits the wall and Dean is suddenly very glad that he’s no longer looming in said doorframe.

The fuming blonde who’s glaring at him like he wants to tear Dean into tiny pieces of Dean-confetti would’ve bulldozed him over and with the way this day’s going, Dean would’ve broken his skull on the tiled kitchen floor. What a fittingly un-epic ending to this stupid Monday.

"Move!" the blondie growls, voice appropriately rumbling to hit that threatening raging bear tone he’s clearly going for. Even with those piercing blue eyes dissecting Dean and making him feel all of two inches tall for a second before he shoves that stupid notion down, it doesn’t occur to Dean that blondie is talking to _him_ until Muscle-Shirt leans around his left shoulder.

"Hi Lucifer," Muscle-Shirt beams — if he’s trying to cover his nerves, he’s doing a horrible job — and _is that bastard using Dean as a meat shield?_ Dean said it before and he’ll say it again: _What a fucking asshole._ "I assume Gabriel told you about the little misunderstanding?"

All at once, like a switch has been flipped, blondie — whose been previously vibrating with barely leashed violence — _stills_. Dean can’t decide what’s more off-putting, the icy blankness on the guy’s face that has his heart beating faster than Muscle-Shirt’s damn gun did or the suddenness of the change. Moody much?

"'Little misunderstanding'?" Blondie — who must be Lucifer, but like hell is Dean gonna humor an asshole who names himself after the freaking devil — asks very, very calmly. Dean determinedly ignores the way that pleasant tone makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Galileo and the pope had a _little misunderstanding_."

"Dude, did you just quote Big Bang Theory?!" Dean exclaims before it occurs to him that refocusing the murderous guy’s attention onto him might not be his wisest choice.

Miraculously, Blondie doesn’t incinerate Dean on the spot like he half expects the guy to. Instead his lips quirk, like he wants to smile but runs out of amusement before the expression fully forms. Still, better safe than sorry. [HA! See that, Sammy? A new level of hypocrisy has been reached!]

"Sorry." Dean raises his hands. "Didn’t mean to interrupt your epic smackdown. Please do continue."

He very pointedly steps away from Muscle-Shirt, who seems to sink into himself when the full weight of Lucifer’s glower hits him. With that, Blondie and Milton, who’s leaning against the doorframe with an amused grin on his face that’s at odds with the way he’s balling his hands into fists, both seem to dismiss Dean’s presence entirely.

Dean’s not sure if he’s insulted or not, but maybe it’s alright not be the focus of everyone’s fury for once. It’s not like he kidnapped himself, after all.

 _Well, you did give it your best shot_ , the Jo-voice in the back of his mind points out drily. Dean ignores her with the ease of long-standing practice.

"Brady," Lucifer says and the room temperature drops several degrees. Dean’s suitably impressed by the level of menace put into a single word. Also _Brady_ , seriously? What a douchebag name. "Was there anything at all about my orders that was unclear to you? Did you, perhaps, not receive sufficient instructions in how to accomplish your goal _without_ grabbing the next best civilian as a hostage and dragging him back _here_?"

Woah, Dean honestly can’t tell if the guy’s being sarcastic or not. Murderous? Definitely. A stone-cold psychopath? The odds are rising rapidly. But sarcastic? Who knows?

Except for Muscle-Shirt Brady, apparently, who’s gathering an alarming amount of sweat on his forehead in record time.

The unnamed girl looks highly entertained by the drama playing out in front of her. Dean gets the sense she doesn’t like Brady much. He can relate.

Still feels bad for the fumbling fuckhead though. That sympathy only increases as Muscle-Shirt Brady continues to stumble through an explanation that, going by his facial expression, utterly fails to impress Blondie.

The cool "Give me _one_ good reason not to string your entrails up on the balcony like a real-life Halloween decoration!" is a big hint too.

"How about 'it’s _unhygienic_ '?" Dean mutters. Naturally the one time he makes a logical and helpful contribution, he is summarily ignored.

Unnamed girl is looking positively gleeful. Definitely doesn’t like Brady. Dean tries to inconspicuously inch further away from her. She looks pretty, but also like she’d make it through the zombie apocalypse, wielding a chain-saw and cackling like a maniac. Murderous Barbie it is.

"Okay, look, I know I fucked up and badly at that." Brady is back-paddling like crazy. If he takes one more step back, he’ll run straight into the refrigerator. Is it bad that the mental picture amuses Dean? "But it’s nothing I can’t fix. I _didn’t_ actually shoot him—"

"Not for lack of trying!" Milton and Dean comment simultaneously. Brady determinedly talks over their contribution. Rude.

"—he’s perfectly fine! We just took him for a little ride!"

Milton snorts. "I pay you to say that to Mikey’s face. After I’ve gotten onto a plane to the Caribbean’s."

"What you did," Blondie says in that I-can’t-believe-I-haven’t-killed-you-yet voice Dean usually hears from his math teachers, "was take a civilian hostage in a territory you damn well know doesn’t belong to us. Independent of his identity, that foolish action alone _could start a fucking war_. Do you even realize the sheer magnitude of what your careless mistake could cost us? You useless—"

The tirade takes on a much sharper edge when Lucifer takes a sudden step forward, smooth and unhesitant, like a serpent uncoiling itself, ready to attack, and Dean isn’t the recipient of the wordless threat Lucifer’s entire body conveys, isn’t even the focus of anyone’s attention, but he tenses reflexively and takes a step back. Smacks into the table drowning in papers with his hip hard enough to hurt and almost lose his balance too, because of course he does.

Muscle-Shirt Brady has lost what little color he had left and even though there’s no guns or other weapons in sight, Dean realizes with sudden clarity that he’s about to witness a murder [how did this escalate so quickly?] and then get killed for witnessing a murder and—

"Luce."

Milton’s voice doesn’t so much cut through the tension as shatter it with all the subtlety of Thor playing frisbee with his hammer in a glazier’s workshop. He’s straightened from his previously relaxed pose, holds that air of authority again, though the word itself isn’t a command.

Dean’s not the queen of reading the room that Charlie likes to portray herself as, but he’s got a pretty good idea of how people work. And what Milton’s doing is just about the closest thing to challenging the unopposed leader in the room without challenging the command structure itself.

"I’d be doing the world a favor," Lucifer replies matter-of-fact.

Brady manages a half-hearted pout, but the death grip around his beer bottle gives away how serious he takes that comment.

"No one’s arguing that point, least of all me." Milton shrugs. He doesn’t step closer, keeps himself physically removed from the situation, even though the mere fact that he’s spoken up underlines that he’s very much involved.

When Lucifer turns around to raise his eyebrows at the guy and gesture impatiently, Milton smirks. "But Mikey’s gonna be furious about this shit show. He’ll want someone to blame. It would be terribly inconsiderate to not give him the chance to aim his anger at the correct target."

In the silence that follows that statement, Brady’s gulp is very audible. And for the first time since he’s gotten himself kidnapped, Dean wonders what exactly he’s gotten himself involved in this time.

"You make a fair point," Lucifer decides after a long moment — which Dean suspect is just the guy’s naturally dramatic flair and honest desire to torture Brady for a little while longer.

"Congratulations, Brady." Lucifer smiles evilly.

[Dean’s never understood that expression before — how can a smile truly be evil? Well, he does now. There’s nothing kind in that smile Lucifer is wielding like a loaded shotgun, only sadistic glee. It’s— kind of pretty. In a terrifying, insane way. Which just goes to show that Dean’s brain should probably quit while it’s ahead.]

"You’ve volunteered to inform Michael about everything that occurred today and offer your reparations for the damage your actions have wrought — not to mention the insult they carried — in whichever way is required of you. Think you can handle that without fucking this up even more or should I just put you out of your misery now?"

Well. Nobody can say Blondie isn’t giving Muscle-Shirt Brady a fair choice. _Note the sarcasm_.

No one looks the least bit surprised when Brady immediately accepts. Though he doesn’t look happy about it. Not at all.

Dean’s getting the impression this Mikey isn’t the goofy Disney type of person. Also he’s really getting tired of this stand-off. There’s only so much drama he can handle without alcohol.

Milton takes a step towards Blondie, who’s looking less devilish than he did moments before, and starts talking too quiet for Dean to catch more than the occasional word. He gets the feeling that’s by design, but at this point he honestly doesn’t have the energy to be offended anymore.

He turns his back on them and faces the table instead, both because there’s still a chance one of them is gonna turn around and shoot him and Dean really doesn’t need to see that coming and because if he doesn’t take a hold of the table _now_ he’s gonna keel over.

"Aww, don’t worry, Brady, well always remember you fondly as the bastard who couldn't hold his liquor or his hostages," Murderous Barbie snarks in the background.

Dean takes a couple of deep breaths, reminds himself not to throw up over all these papers because they look pretty important, even if most of them are meaningless numbers Dean wouldn’t know how to interpret even if he hadn’t spent his entire educational career failing math— Huh.

That. That’s not numbers. That looks like the floor plan of a building. Actually, the set-up looks kind of familiar.

"What about the idiot add-on?" Murderous Barbie asks from somewhere to his right, not that Dean is paying her any mind.

If this plan’s measurements are what Dean suspects them to be, well, there’s not many homes in their city that would fit the bill. Half Hell isn’t tiny, but it’s not huge either and safe for a very small percentage of people, nobody here could afford living in a home like this.

"What do you think?" Blondie snaps back and wow, does he sound annoyed. "Get him back to wherever the hell you picked him up and fuck off. Gabe, you think you can manage that without running into any of Michael’s look-outs before Brady here has a chance to explain the situation?"

In fact, that long, narrow Southern wing and the shorter, but much broader Western wing — a purposefully asymmetric design, meant to convey the differing roles the building has to fulfill and be practical at the same time, a clear division between the public and privately accessible parts of this home, yeah, Dean’s definitely seen this building before. Hell, he’s visited it before because Sammy is a huge nerd and Dean still can’t say no to those damn puppy eyes.

"Sure."

"And what if he blabs?" Murderous Barbie speaks up again.

"What’s he gonna say, huh? The only crime he’s witnesses was his own kidnapping and considering the lack of evidence, not so much as a fucking bruise on him, the case wouldn’t ever make it to court."

"It might raise some interest though, considering you’re, well, you."

"We’ll deal with it when it becomes necessary. For now, get him out of my house before Michael rains hell down on all of us."

"As you wish, Luce."

"Oh, fuck you, Gabriel."

Dean pulls another sheet closer. On first glance, he thought it was just random numbers, but next to the floor plan and taking into consideration what Dean knows about the security— the first column must be the level of the building, the next three are clearly timings. What would you time on every flo— of course, the guard shifts.

The Saubers are well-known for relying on traditional manpower as much as on technical security measures and they take their safety and especially the safety of their children very serious. Not like there’s much of a threat as far as Dean is aware— then again, he’s currently looking at the building plans of their home.

"You’re breaking into the Major’s home?" Dean asks incredulously, then belatedly realizes that this, perhaps, is another one of those quiet realizations it’s better _not_ to share out loud.

He looks up to find that yes, everyone is indeed staring at him with varying levels of dismay. Except for Blondie. He just looks pissed.

 _Oops_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How To Increase Your Hostage's Justified Paranoia Levels By 170% With One Simple Statement Like A First-Grade Asshole_
> 
> In which drugs are not the solution to everyone's problem, respect for personal space is not a common kidnapper trait, Gabriel says a lot without saying anything at all and absolutely nobody likes politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes casual references to non-consensual drug use. It doesn't happen, but certain characters consider it a perfectly adequate response to the current situation and the issue is handled with the carelessness and lack of respect that implies.

> _You know, when you’re too pissed to be scared but too scared to be pissed?_
> 
> —Dean

Last time: " _You’re breaking into the Major’s home?_ "

* * *

"…so not a completely idiotic add-on, then," Murderous Barbie observes after a moment.

Milton facepalms. It does little to muffle his exasperated groan. Dean could be wrong, but he thinks he hears a 'so damn close' somewhere in there.

"Sorry?" Dean means to say, though it comes out sounding more like a question than an apology.

Blondie rubs his temples as though trying to stave off an impeding headache. Maybe he’d appreciate some painkillers as well? Dean can’t speak for anyone else, but they do wonders for his mood. Even when he’s being kidnapped and about to be gruesomely murdered, apparently. At least Dean hopes his murder will be gruesome. It seems kind of pointless not to go all in if he bothers at all.

Okay. Sammy can never hear of this thought. Ever.

"Alright, change of plans," Blondie says after a moment, fingers twitching like he wants to wrap them around someone’s throat and squeeze. Probably Dean’s. "Brady, to Michael, _now_. Gabriel, call Ruby. Alastair can wait, this is more important. You two, clean this fucking mess up and _you_ —" Lucifer — and it’s definitely Lucifer right now — rounds in on Dean, "— you don’t touch anything. You don’t open anything. You don’t even fucking look at anything. Capisce?"

Lucifer’s gaze is so intense, Dean wants to describe it as 'burning', except that feels off somehow because it’s also so freaking cold. Is there such a thing as freezing flames? And really, forget the devil in front of him, Dean should probably sit down. Like right now.

"’s alright if I throw up?" is what comes out of Dean’s mouth when he opens it. Not what he meant to say, but a legitimate question nonetheless. Dean’s still feeling kinda shaky and with all the excitement he’s been getting in the last two hours, throwing up is a very real possibility.

Lucifer narrows his eyes. He doesn’t snap at Dean or even take it as a joke though. Instead, somehow, between one blink and the next Lucifer is standing directly in front of Dean, well within his personal space. Dean blinks again, just to check if he’s hallucinating. But nope, no such luck. Either he’s in way worse shape than he thought or Lucifer is capable of teleportation. Dean genuinely can’t tell which option is more likely.

Also, he was right. Up close it’s easy to tell that Lucifer’s eyes do in fact burn at glacial temperatures.

"Woah, dude. Personal space!" Dean complains when Lucifer grabs his chin none too gently and leans in even further.

What the hell? He’s covered the whole sexual harassment shit more often than Dean cares to admit — with his dad, again with Sammy, at school, with Jo and Charlie and again with Meg — and there was a lot of talk about boundaries in there. This feels _way_ past boundaries.

At least he doesn’t smell too bad. You know, for a murderer. No stench of blood or dead bodies. Not that Dean can tell at least.

"He’s high as fuck," Lucifer says suddenly, which at least clears up why he’s been staring into Dean’s eyes like they’re the main characters of a Disney love story who’re meeting for the first time. His left hand his wrapped around Dean’s throat, suddenly and Dean becomes hyperaware of every motion he makes with every breath he takes. And also of the fingers that he’s pretty sure are resting on his pulse point. This is either the weirdest flirt move he’s ever seen or the weirdest physical check-up Dean’s ever received.

"You give him something?" Blondie asks, curious, not accusing. Dean kind of wants to hit him. Or head-butt him. Or lean against him and sleep.

All three seem like solid choices.

"Not a chance in hell!" Milton’s a lot closer than he previously was as well. It’s probably not a good thing that Dean lost track of him. "I had nothing suitable on hand and even if I’d had, you seriously think I’d take that risk?"

"I don’t know, would you?"

"Fuck you, Luce. Seriously."

"Hey!" Dean protests. "I’m perfectly capable of drugging myself, okay, thank you. Now can you please let me go?!"

The answer, it turns out, is no. If anything, both Lucifer and Milton crowd even closer. At this rate, Dean’s gonna develop claustrophobia.

" _You_ take drugs?" Milton asks incredulously.

"What did you take?" Lucifer demands at the exact same time.

It gets the words all mixed up in Dean’s head and it takes him a moment or two to untangle the strands, make them both stand on their own again, all neat and pretty looking.

"Painkillers," Dean settles on after a moment. And because he’s feeling helpful, he even pulls the crumpledpackage out of his back-pocket and holds it up for them to see.

"Those are prescription meds."

"Got one." Dean shrugs. "I get migraines sometimes, bad ones. These are the only ones that work."

While Gabriel studies the package — there’s nothing to see there, Dean really has a prescription and besides it’s no secret that he sometimes takes them, it’s just his luck that one of his off-days was _today_ — Lucifer stares at him for another moment as though weighing the sincerity of his answer.

Then he steps back. "That’s inconvenient."

And what?

While Dean struggles to make sense of that comment, Gabriel doesn’t seem to suffer the same problem. "You _want_ to drug him?"

Sometimes — in moments like this one — Dean wonders whether he’s being slow or whether his brain just instinctively tries to protect him from realizations that scare the freaking crap out of him. This is so not the time for a panic attack. Luckily, the two morons surrounding him, continue their conversation which does help to drown out the ringing white noise that’s filling Dean’s head for a moment.

"Relax, it was just a thought. You have admit, it would be convenient. And we’re only talking about the last few minutes really, a low dose of GHB should’ve been sufficient."

Dean is very, very proud of himself when he manages to look straight at Lucifer and keep his voice steady. "Dude, just because I’m way out of your league is no reason to turn to date rape drugs. Consent is sexy, ever heard that one?"

If he didn’t know better and Sammy wasn’t brunette, Dean would swear Lucifer is treating him to one of his brother’s patented bitch faces. "I’m talking about erasing your memories, not raping you, you absolute nitwit," Lucifer snarls as though _he_ ’s the insulted party.

That response probably shouldn’t make Dean sag in relief, but yeah. It definitely does. Sue Dean, but there’s murder and then there’s creepy stuff being done to his unconscious body and maybe it’s not exactly rational, but Dean knows what possibility freaks him out a hell of a lot more.

"But it’s a moot point." Lucifer shrugs. "We can’t risk it, not with you like this."

"Even if he was stone-cold sober it would’ve still been a stupid ass idea," Milton mutters under his breath.

Lucifer ignores him. Dean just focuses on regulating his breathing again.

"Unfortunately, that means we’ll have to find another solution." Lucifer takes another step back, which has the fortunate effect of relaxing some of the mounting tension in Dean’s shoulders.

Right now, he prefers as much distance between his body and this lunatic as possible, thank you.

In true Monday fashion, this is also the moment when Dean’s legs finally decide they’ve done their job for the day and he just— crumbles. Dean thanks every pantheon he vaguely recalls from Religious Studies that it’s Milton and not Lucifer that catches him. Silver linings, and all that.

"Alright, big boy." Milton sighs. "Let’s get you settled in on the couch."

* * *

Dean doesn’t remember much regarding how he gets from the kitchen into the living room. Maybe the meds are to blame for that — even at the best of times, they tend to make him loopy — or maybe his mind simply shuts down for a few minutes, overwhelmed by everything that’s happened and the rapid mood swings that came along with it.

By the time Dean blinks at the ceiling with enough awareness to realize that he’s lying on a very comfortable, dark blue couch with his feet propped up on one arm rest, the whole move seems to be over. Murderous Barbie and the unnamed guy are nowhere in sight and neither is Brady, all three of them probably working on the jobs Lucifer handed them. Milton — or Gabriel, whichever — is sitting across from Dean in a huge, comfy looking armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He’s fiddling with his phone, a frown on his face. It reminds Dean of his own phone. A simple shift tells him that it’s still in his hoodie’s pocket. How nobody has found it yet is a mystery.

Then again, maybe none of them have bothered to look.

There’s a glass of water on the small table right in Dean’s line of sight and makes to reach for it before his last conversation with Lucifer comes to the forefront of his mind and he hastily aborts the motion. Wonderful. He’s gonna be paranoid about any food or drink he’ll be handed, Dean can tell already.

"It’s not drugged."

Dean forces himself into an upright seated position. He blinks twice into the vague direction where the words came for before his surroundings come fully into focus. Blondie is staring at him. Which is not creepy at all.

"Yeah thanks," Dean rasps. "But that’s what someone who drugged it would say too."

Lucifer tilts his head. "I have nothing to gain from lying. But if it helps, if I wanted to drug you, it would happen whether you drink that water or not."

Dean shudders exaggeratedly, if only to cover up the very real shiver that races down his spine, not so much at the words but the utter expressionlessness with which Lucifer says them. "You should look up 'help' in a dictionary because that sure as hell wasn’t it," he snarks, but reaches for the water all the same.

It’s not like Lucifer’s wrong. And despite his response Dean _does_ appreciate the straight-forward statement. Besides even if they do drug him, it would hardly be the first time. What’s the worst that could happen?

And yeah, Dean really, really doesn’t want an answer to that question. Thank you very much.

It’s water from the tap, room temperature, and although Dean grimaces at the stale taste it does its job just fine. "Thanks," he adds after a moment and doesn’t bother clarifying whether he means the water or the — hopefully — lack of unwanted additions in it.

Lucifer inclines his head. Milton continues to type away on his phone.

"Now then, Dean, we seem to have a bit of a problem."

Dean scoffs. "The day I only have 'a bit of a problem' is the day I’m dead."

That gets him two raised eyebrows. Dean isn’t sure whether that’s a good reaction or not, but he absolutely means what he says.

"Indeed." Lucifer’s voice reaches a new level of dryness that would make the Sahara seem like the embodiment of humidity in comparison. Dean’s not gonna lie: He’s jealous. Why do all the people around him always have so many awesome ways of expressing themselves while Dean just fumbles through the day and tries not to piss off too many people at once? Okay, some days he focuses more on the former part than the latter, but that’s neither here nor there.

"But be that as it may, I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay with us for a little while."

Dean opens his mouth. Wants to say 'I thought that was the whole point of this kidnapping drama, why do you look like you expect me to faint in shock any second now?'.

Closes it when he realizes that maybe this is one of those times that require a more diplomatic touch. Tries to decide whether he even gives a fuck. His brain says he definitely should. Jo-voice agrees. Sammy-voice calls out his name real sad.

Dean ignores them all.

"How long is a little while?" he asks because that’s something he should probably clear up right away. Wouldn’t want there to be any scheduling mishaps, over-bookings are always annoying for everyone involved.

"Two weeks, possibly three." Milton doesn’t look happy. Neither does Lucifer, which seems a bit hypocritical when you consider that he’s undoubtedly the one who made that decision.

"Why?"

"Business," is all Lucifer says.

But Dean already knows the answer, doesn’t he? Because that’s how long it’ll take until whatever they need the information on the Major’s home for will be over and done with. Dean kind of wishes the pain meds would just make his brain shut up, the self-important idiot really enjoys hearing itself talk too much.

It’s probably a good thing Dean never had any particular opinion on the Major one way or another, or this would be quite the moral dilemma. As it is, he simply shrugs. Right now, he can think of worse places to be. Better ones too, but most of them aren’t affordable to a broke nineteen-year-old college drop out. As long as he gets this couch for the duration, he’ll be fine. Probably.

Maybe.

"Okay," Dean says slowly when it becomes clear that Lucifer and Milton are waiting for— something. He’s too tired to try and figure out what that is though.

"This is an unfortunate situation for everyone, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t make it needlessly complicated," Lucifer says eventually.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning don’t run away, don’t kill anyone and definitely don’t do anything stupid."

"Like get myself kidnapped by an idiot with anger issues?" Dean gives the guy a very unimpressed look.

"Exactly like that," Lucifer says without a hint of irony. "It would be extremely tiresome to have to track you down and slaughter everyone involved, and my time is both limited and valuable. So please do everyone a favor and _don’t_."

He seems pretty damn serious. Makes Dean wonder exactly how high the risk of getting kidnapped from his kidnappers actually is. "Well, okay then. When you put it like that."

In all honesty, Dean kind of has been expecting something along these lines. Well, that or a casket. And two to three weeks isn’t that much. It’s— he can work with that. Charlie will too. After she kills him for being needlessly reckless. She can _never_ find out that Lucifer was initially going to send Dean home immediately.

All in all, not yet the catastrophe Dean’s been expecting ever since he witnessed the almost-escalation in the kitchen. And because Lucifer and Milton are still watching him expectantly — "Do I get the top bunk bed?"

* * *

The moment Gabriel enters Luce’s unofficial office — he’s got a very official one too, the pretentious bastard — after his brother, he can literally feel the tension rise.

At least Ruby is already there, leaning against the wall on the right side of Lucifer’s desk, arms crossed in front of her. She _hates_ leaving a task unfinished. That’ll spare them having to rehash the oncoming argument later on.

"What’s going on, boss?" Ruby’s eyes are fixed on Lucifer, not giving any sign of noticing Gabriel’s presence except for the occasional flicker as her eyes track his movements. Unlike most of the others, Ruby might pretend to ignore Gabriel, but she never truly does.

[She knows he could take her if he wanted to and Ruby _despises_ him for that, more than she’d ever despise him for not choosing Lucifer’s side. She doesn’t care whether he’s a traitor so long as Luce doesn’t order his death. She cares that he presents a threat to her and she can’t defend herself unless she gets explicit permission.

Lucifer is a stone-cold bastard, but he’ll murder anyone who lays a finger on his family. _Creatively_. That hasn’t changed, not even with everything that stands between them these days. Today more so than on most days.]

"Dean fucking Winchester is napping on my couch." Lucifer throws himself into his desk chair with all the vigor of a petulant child.

His blunt statement gives Gabriel the pleasure of witnessing Ruby caught completely off-guard — a rare occurrence. Lucifer hasn’t chosen her as his second over other, more experienced options because of her looks.

Unfortunately, Gabriel doesn’t get to enjoy the moment for long. Lucifer’s glare has a way of souring even the cheeriest person’s mood. Gabriel would know.

"Care to explain how that came to be, Gabriel?" Lucifer doesn’t so much ask as order. "Or do you expect me to believe that of all the cars Brady could’ve picked, it _just happened_ to be Dean Winchester’s? A car I’m well aware you’d recognize on sight?"

Gabriel refuses to wince at the sarcastic lilt that more often than not spells someone’s demise. He’s never been afraid of any of his brothers and he sure as hell isn’t about to start now. The problem is, he can’t tell Lucifer the truth. And he can’t lie to the bastard either. The only option in which he doesn’t break his word to anyone is to keep quiet — and that alone tells Lucifer all he needs to know.

Both Lucifer and Ruby wait in silence for a few moments, until it becomes clear that Gabriel won’t answer verbally. And just like Gabriel expects, Lucifer’s face visibly darkens as he follows the logical train of thought.

"You were following Michael’s orders."

It’s not a question. Gabriel couldn’t confirm or deny it, even if he wanted to.

Ruby tabs one of her long, red nails against the skin over her collarbone. "Michael has no interest in Winchester being taken anywhere, never mind here."

"Good point." Lucifer hums. Closes his eyes. "It was the car. Michael lost track of him one too many times, got nervous, so he tasked you with installing a tracker somewhere inside the car, where it wouldn’t be found. Dean interrupted you."

Lucifer opens his eyes again, but if he’s looking for confirmation in Gabriel’s expression, he won’t find it. Gabriel may not be able to lie to his brothers directly, but he’s long learned how to keep what he needs to from them. Not that Lucifer is looking for confirmation, he’s already made up his mind and considers the matter settled. Gabriel can tell by the way he’s folding his hands, leans back into his seat.

"What happened?"

That at least, is a question he can answer. Well, more or less. Gabriel shrugs. Honestly, he’s still not sure himself how everything spiraled out of control so quickly. "Brady lost it. Still not dealing well with pressure and too obsessed with not going back to jail to keep his head straight in a crisis. You need to deal with that, by the way. One way or another, he’s a ticking time bomb. It was all I could do to keep him from killing Winchester. That was my top priority, hence the kidnapping when Brady fixated on it. I figured, worst comes to worse, you’d be able to control him so I got them both here as quickly as possible."

"Fucking brilliant that went. Now I can’t get rid off the brat without risking the entire operation." Lucifer growls.

"To be fair, I had no idea Lils and Az would be here, never mind that they’d keep their plans lying around _in the kitchen_ ," Gabriel shoots back sharply because he’s not taking the fall for this mess. Someone’s gonna get killed for it and it sure as fuck won’t be him.

"It makes for a good workplace," Ruby comments lightly.

They both ignore her.

"I’m going to need to have dinner with Michael," Lucifer says after a moment of contemplation. That gets Ruby straightening faster than a drawn gun would. She doesn’t protest though, she’s too good for that.

"I agree." Gabriel inclines his head, but doesn’t drop his gaze. He’s not a subordinate and he won’t offer unless Lucifer asks.

Brady’s explanation might keep Michael from flipping his shit — though that’s by no means a given — but if they’re really going to keep Dean here for a few days, never mind weeks, Lucifer is going to have to explain himself. In person. With the situation being what it is, anything else would, at the very least, be interpreted as a insult, if not an outright threat.

"Why can’t you just drop Winchester off on his doorstep?" Ruby asks instead, as always too sharp for her own good. "Would solve our problem, him being here is a political nightmare waiting to happen. Besides doesn’t the kid deserve that much?"

Gabriel snorts in derision. He can’t help it. "You know that 'kid’ you’re referring to is only three years younger than you are, right? And if Michael was going to face Winchester, he’d have done it and we wouldn’t have known until Deano drop-kicked all of us in the nuts — and I’m including Mikey in that 'us', by the way. He hasn’t, so he won’t. Stubborn asshole won’t change his mind just because his decision _inconveniences_ us."

"Not to mention we caused the problem, however involuntary, thus the responsibility falls to us." Lucifer sends a glower into Gabriel’s direction, but it’s half-hearted at most. That alone tells Gabriel more about the state of affairs than any report he’s read.

 _Fucking politics_.

"Gabriel, can you approach Michael about a dinner invitation at his earliest convenience?" Lucifer asks as politely as he ever gets. Gabriel almost smiles.

"The Roadhouse?" _You’ll need neutral ground_.

"The Roadhouse." _I know_.

"Consider it done." _You’ll owe me big for this_.

"That still leaves us with the problem of Dean Winchester," Ruby points out, pointedly interrupting their stare-down. She’s been around too long to be intimidated by their antics. "The Scene isn’t built to keep hostages contained. We could use the panic room, but considering he could lock us out that’s less than ideal."

"The cellar would be an option," Gabriel says, just to see how Lucifer will react.

Lucifer reacts with a scoff and an aborted motion that would’ve probably been a throwing knife aimed at Gabriel’s head if he was wearing his favorite belt. "Are you out of your mind?!" Then he turns bodily and fixates Ruby with a stare that conveys just how much people will end up dead if they ignore his orders _very_ clearly. "No locking him up. No messing with his food, no hazing and for God’s sake, _no messing with his head_. I don’t give a fuck if you like him or not, he’ll come out of this house three weeks from now without a single fucking scratch _or_ new nightmare, got it?"

Ruby stares at him like she’s never seen her boss before. Gabriel would too, except he gets where Luce is coming from. He really does.

[He was there. He’d _seen_ Michael the first time—

Yeah.]

Doesn’t matter how many differences he and his brothers have, there’s certain lines they don’t cross and this, this is one of them.

"So we have a hostage we can’t threaten or scare or hurt in any way that we need to keep under control for three weeks?" Ruby says slowly. "Oh joy."

Gabriel chuckles in spite of himself. "For what it’s worth, I think you’ll like him."

Ruby shoots him an unreadable look. "Coming from you, Gabriel, that’s a terrifying prediction."

"Enough, you two." Lucifer smirks. "Ruby, make sure everyone understands the rules regarding our new guest and clear the house of anything he shouldn’t find. Gabe, go cause trouble elsewhere. And brother?"

Gabriel stills from where he’s half-risen out of his chair, the sudden coolness almost catching him off-guard. But he’s been playing this game his entire life, so he stares evenly back into the cold chips of ice that are Lucifer’s eyes when he finally drops the masks. "I tolerate your loyalties. Do not make me regret that by ever risking a mission I gave you like this ever again." _I love you. Don’t make me kill you_.

"Understood," Gabriel replies lowly. Which is an acknowledgement, not an agreement as they both damn well know.

_Fucking. Politics._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get used to this update schedule. Seriously, don't.  
> In other news, I added the POV shift to Gabriel here because Dean's currently not at his best and also lacks a lot of information and insights on what's going on beyond his current situation. I figured a bit more background will help you both, understand the positions of the characters in their interaction with Dean better as well as give you a couple more hints on what may be going on beyond the random kidnapping of our favorite cinnamon roll with no self-preservation instincts to speak of. Hope you like it!


End file.
